


Nine Years Later

by circ_bamboo



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-22
Updated: 2010-10-22
Packaged: 2017-10-12 20:01:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/128505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/circ_bamboo/pseuds/circ_bamboo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Regency AU; Pike (Baron Prescott) has returned home from the Napoleonic Wars, along with James Kirk (the Earl of Riverside) and Lieutenant Leonard McCoy, to claim the lady he left . . . nine years before. Will she be there? Also, Viscount Spockton meets an interesting woman when she performs at the opera gala . . . And what is Miss McCoy's governess hiding?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Art by theoreticalpixy can be found [here](http://theoreticalfic.livejournal.com/11586.html).  
> Mix by echoinautumn can be found [here](http://echoinautumn.livejournal.com/57383.html).
> 
> Beta'd by the excellently-picky seashadows. The Duke of Hastings, his duchess, the Bridgertons, the Smythe-Smith musicale, and the Earl of Macclesfield all borrowed from Julia Quinn. The Duke of St. Ives borrowed from Stephanie Laurens. Thanks also due to boosette and feels_like_fire for listening to me whine.

_In which everyone dances, but with the wrong partner_  
June 1816  
Seabourne House

  
All of London agreed on two things: that Lady Christine Chapel, youngest daughter of the Earl of Patterson, was the Incomparable of the Season, and that Captain Lord Christopher Pike and Captain Lord James Kirk, Baron Prescott and the Earl of Riverside, respectively, were the most eligible bachelors. The betting-book at White's was rapidly expanding with wagers debating which of the two she'd accept and when. Neither of the gentlemen had even shown up at any social events since returning to the city, but already rumors were flying.

The aforementioned Lady Christine had heard the rumors and while she was not-so-secretly gratified to be considered the Incomparable of the season, she was absolutely not going to marry either of the men, and told her oldest sister and chaperone, Lady Eve Chapel, as much. "I will allow that they are both said to be handsome men," Lady Christine said, "but Lord Riverside is well-known to be reckless and, well, _you_ know why I would never marry Lord Prescott."

"He _is_ twice your age," Lady Eve murmured, surveying the crowd. Lord and Lady Seabourne's parties were commonly known to be mad crushes, despite Lady Seabourne's unfortunate Irish heritage, and it seemed that half of fashionable London was packed into the ballroom.

Lady Christine shot her sister a sidelong glance. "Yes, he is of quite advanced age, and with that limp, it is likely that he will not be as active as he was before."

"Chrissy," Eve said, keeping her voice even. "It is impolite to talk about a war hero in such tones."

"Evie," Christine said, matching her sister's cadence, "it is perfectly polite to talk about the man who left one's sister behind in such tones."

"Chrissy," Eve said, showing slight annoyance, "we are in public."

Miss Gaila Seabourne, daughter of the hosts and possessed of her mother's curly bright-red hair and green eyes and her father's infectiously social nature, descended upon them before Christine could respond. "Chrissy! Evie! You must dance!"

"I am here as a chaperone," Eve protested, and despite Gaila's encouragement, remained against the wall. Christine, however, had nearly all her dances spoken for, of course, and a curly-headed Russian princeling came to take her hand for the quadrille. Gaila partnered with Lord Scott, and the music started.

"Lady Eve," she heard behind her, and turned to see Alexander Grayson, Viscount Spockton, heir to the Marquess of Searick, holding a glass of lemonade, dressed in his habitual unrelieved black and white. She accepted it with brief words of thanks. He settled in, standing straight and tall next to her, not propping up the wall like so many of his contemporaries. "You are well?" he asked.

"Quite," she said. "And yourself, Lord Spockton?"

"I am content," he said. "Do you and your family attend the Duke of St. Ives's musicale next week?"

"I do not know," Eve said. "Who is performing?" They had long been acquaintances, both standing on the periphery of society, but there was certainly little formality and no romance between them.

"I believe it is a young Indian woman," he said, and she understood his interest—his mother was Indian, and he carried her dark hair and features. "She is said to have the purest tone ever heard on an Italian stage."

"I will inform my father," Eve said. "Thank you for the information." She watched her sister dance, her light blue dress swirling around her ankles. Christine was certainly deserving of the Incomparable title even without the mention of her twenty thousand, she thought. At eighteen, she was slender and graceful, with their mother's blonde hair and the blue eyes that all five Chapel siblings shared. If perhaps she was taller than some of the other debutantes, no one had yet complained, and Eve had heard more than one gentleman indiscreetly speaking of her sister's legs.

When Eve had been eighteen, she had not been nearly as graceful as Christine, and with unfortunately-common dark hair, she had not made as much of an impression on London society. She suppressed a sigh. Lord Spockton looked at her, followed her gaze, and said, "Your sister appears to be doing quite well under your tutelage."

"Oh, I doubt any of it is my doing," Eve said, but she was interrupted by a wave of murmurs going through the crowd, and the announcement of the arrival of the Earl of Riverside. She did not try to crane her head to see him; he would undoubtedly try to claim a dance from Christine, and she would observe him then. Lord Spockton looked supremely uninterested in the goings-on at the other end of the ballroom, so she asked, "Do you know the Earl of Riverside?"

"We attended Oxford at the same time," he said. As they watched another suitor claim Christine's hand for a polonaise, he asked, "Are you sure you would not care to dance, Lady Eve?"

"No, thank you, Lord Spockton. It is rather out of my purview as a chaperone." She smiled at him, assuming that he was asking out of perceived social duty.

He looked a bit disappointed, nonetheless, and she wondered why until a voice called out, "Spock!" from only a couple feet away. Lord Spockton cringed as the highly-recognizable Earl of Riverside appeared out of the crowd and clapped him on the shoulder. "Spock, old man, how have you been?"

"I am fine," Lord Spockton said, but nothing more.

Eve tried her hardest not to giggle at the audacity of Lord Riverside in giving Lord Spockton a nickname and almost succeeded, but Riverside turned to look at her. "Lady Eve Chapel, is it? Michael's sister?"

His eyes were intensely blue, his hair blond in the fashion of men accustomed to spending a good deal of time outdoors. He'd chosen a dark blue coat to wear, and it emphasized the breadth of his shoulders. Eve was acutely aware of two things: first, that he was younger than she, and second, that as handsome as he was, he could not remotely hold a candle to Christopher. "Lord Riverside," she said, acknowledging him, despite the fact that it was not completely proper.

"Ah, Lady Eve Chapel, allow me to present James Kirk, the Earl of Riverside," Lord Spockton said.

"So good to meet you finally," Lord Riverside said with a broad grin. "You're twice as beautiful as he said. I believe you know how to waltz?"

"I think you have mistaken me for my sister, my lord," she said as Lord Riverside held out his hand.

"No—Lady Christine has blonde hair, does she not? I definitely mean you."

Somehow Eve found herself taking his hand, and an instant later, she was in his arms, waltzing around the floor. She knew how to waltz, had taught all of her younger sisters, and was impeccably correct, but had never danced at an event. Lord Riverside was light on his feet and very skilled as well. "I have two other sisters," she said, while they were on the floor, as a final token protest.

"And I'm sure they're lovely as well, but you are the eldest, correct? The number one sister?" He had the audacity to wink at her after saying that, but she'd already frozen for a moment before relaxing back into the dance.

Christopher had dubbed her Number One many years before, and since he had left, no one had dared called her that. "I was not aware that you were acquainted with Lord Prescott, my lord," she said at her iciest, not bothering to deny that he'd scored a point.

"He was my captain before my last promotion," Lord Riverside said, still cheerful. "Of course he only mentioned you in the most respectful fashion."

"Of course," Eve said, perhaps the tiniest bit more warmly. "We are so grateful for your service to our country."

"Thank you, Lady Eve," he said. "Kit is back in town, you know."

She froze again, and narrowed her eyes. "I was not aware. I do not follow his comings and goings."

"He might even stop by tonight."

She stumbled intentionally and kicked him in the knee. "Oh, I am so sorry, my lord," she said, false sincerity dripping from her voice.

"No trouble at all," Lord Riverside said, gritting his teeth. Fortunately, the song ended very soon after that, and he led her back to the side of the room quite correctly. "Thank you so much, Lady Eve, for the lovely waltz."

"You're quite welcome, Lord Riverside." She dipped into a curtsey, and after a short bow, he disappeared into the crowd. Lord Spockton had since disappeared, she noticed, and she searched for him along the walls.

Christine appeared from that same crowd a moment later, flanked by Gaila, and said, "Did you dance?"

Galia added, "I saw you waltzing! Evie, you _waltzed_ with _Lord Riverside!_ "

"I did, and I am afraid I shall live to regret it." Eve smiled at her sister and her friend.

"Was it that bad? Does he wish to court you?" Gaila asked. "You do make quite a handsome couple."

"No, of course not," Eve said. "Gaila, he is a year younger than I am, if not more."

"I don't see what's wrong with that," Christine pointed out. "Everyone is determined to marry me off to a man twice my age. Is that so much stranger than you marrying a man a year younger than you are?"

"You have a point," Eve said, chuckling. "But no, my dears, he was very definitely not courting me."

Gaila accepted that answer with a nod, and turned as Lord Riley came to collect her for a set of country dances. Christine checked her fan and said, "I am not partnered for this dance. How do you know he is very definitely not courting you?"

"I shall tell you later," Eve said, and then she remembered the content of his message. "I fear I have a bit of a headache, Chrissy. Would you mind if we left?"

Christine hesitated. "I am sure Gaila's mother will serve as chaperone for me. Or," she said, when Eve frowned, "there is Miss Rand. I am sure her mother will look after me as well. They only live two doors away from us, and I shall certainly be able to get home in their carriage."

"Let me speak to her," Eve said.

A quick word and Lady Rand was more than willing to look after Christine as well as her own daughter, and Eve sent for the carriage to bring her home, hopefully before Christopher made an appearance. A footman held the door for her, and she turned to the carriage, putting her foot carefully on the step, turning back for the footman's hand up, when two large, warm, _male_ hands caught her about the waist and handed her into the carriage.

Eve turned to see who her benefactor had been—certainly no footman would have touched her so—and stared into a pair of warm gray eyes, and a familiar half-smile. _The crinkles and gray temples are new,_ she thought, in the moment before she recollected herself. "Thank you, Lord Prescott," she said, and pulled the door shut quickly. She tapped the ceiling of the carriage and sat back against the cushions, staring straight forward as the driver pulled out.

 _No, no, no._ Not only was Christopher back in town, but she'd seen him, and he'd seen her. He'd always been well-favored, of course, but nine years of not-entirely-peaceful living had given his face more character. At twenty-seven, he'd been attractive, but at thirty-six, by torchlight, he was positively breathtaking. Eve squeezed her eyes shut and prayed, silently, that Christine would not see him.

* * *

Christopher, Baron Prescott, stared after Lord Patterson's carriage as it pulled away from the Seabournes' house. Well, that hadn't gone how he'd pictured it. Eve was not supposed to be running away from the party, and certainly not from him. She was still uncommonly beautiful, he thought. The intervening time had added more curves to her figure and more angles to her face, and she wore both of them with a poise that she hadn't quite had at nineteen. He raised one hand to scrub through his hair, but remembered at the last minute how long it had taken Boyce to tousle it _à la Brutus_ , and held himself back.

He went up the stairs slowly—they still gave him trouble, courtesy of the musket ball formerly lodged in his right hip—entered the foyer, and handed his card to the footman waiting at the door to the ballroom.

"Captain Lord Christopher Pike, fourth Baron Prescott!" rang out through the hall—or maybe it just sounded that way to him. There were altogether too many people in that room, and he'd lost his only reason for showing up to the Seabournes' dance, but he'd gotten this far; he had to make it the rest of the way. Plastering a politely interested expression on his face, he greeted his hosts, and headed for the refreshments.

On the way there, he heard his nickname, and turned. "Jamie!" he said, greeting the younger man.

"You came!" James Kirk, Earl of Riverside and former subordinate of his, shook his hand. "Did you see her?"

"Who, Lady Eve?"

"Who else, man? She looks quite lovely tonight, wearing some dark purple thing with ruffles or something."

"Clearly you follow fashion quite closely," Christopher said, arching an eyebrow. "And as a matter of fact, I did see her. I helped her into her carriage as she left, and she thanked 'Lord Prescott' quite formally and sped away."

"Bad luck, Kit," Jamie said, shaking his head. "I waltzed with her, mentioned you, and she kicked me in the knee. I don't think it was a coincidence."

"You did what?" Christopher said, and sighed. "Great. No wonder she was leaving."

"Her sister is here," Jamie said, gesturing ineffectually. "I didn't think she'd leave!"

"Lady Christine is here?" He peered over the crowd.

"Yes; she's dancing with Spock at the moment," Jamie said, waving a careless hand in the general direction of the dancers. "Come; I left McCoy attempting to speak to someone's mother. I should rescue him."

"And how is McCoy doing?" Christopher asked as they navigated their way through the crowd. "And Miss McCoy?"

"Joanna's quite well," Jamie said, his face lighting up. "We've finally found a proper governess for her."

Christopher privately thought Jamie was perhaps a bit too attached to Miss Joanna McCoy and her father, but didn't say anything. He wouldn't judge, if Jim wouldn't judge his attachment to an on-the-shelf ice queen that he'd essentially deserted nine years previous.

They reached Lieutenant McCoy, who was fending off all sorts of misses in brightly-colored dresses. Apparently a traumatic past with a wife who had died in childbirth while he was fighting Napoleon made up for the fact that he was merely a Scottish viscount's second son with a five-year-old daughter. "McCoy, I found Kit," Jamie said.

McCoy's head flew up, and a look of relief spread across his face. "Captain. Lord Prescott."

"Lieutenant McCoy," he said. "It's a pleasure to see you again."

"Always a pleasure to see you as well, sir. My lord." The young ladies scattered, somewhat.

"'Christopher' is perfectly acceptable," he said. McCoy's accent was starting to show, which probably meant he was nervous. "I suppose we ought to dance with some of these lovely young ladies." The three of them standing together were attracting quite a bit of attention. He really didn't want to dance and wasn't entirely sure how well that would work with the hip, but society dictated certain actions and he wasn't going to jeopardize his status right when he'd come back to claim Eve. "Except I don't think I know any of them."

"You know that one over there," Jamie said, jerking his chin towards a stunning blonde in a light-blue gown, standing by a curvy redhead and a shorter blonde in a light-yellow gown. She turned, and he caught the line of her chin silhouetted against the wall. Realization dawned.

"That's not little Chrissy, is it?"

McCoy snorted. "You keep callin' her that, sir, and the odds are going to jump in your favor."

"What, do you have money on it, McCoy?" Jamie drawled.

"I've got money on that lovely young lass having the smarts to marry neither of you. Meaning no disrespect, sir."

"Of course not, McCoy. If you'll excuse me, gentlemen?" He didn't wait for a response before heading over to the trio of lovely young women, his gait fairly even. "Lady Christine. May I have this dance?"

Lady Christine looked up at him, blue eyes wide, and he held out a hand. The petite blonde nudged her in the arm, and she took his hand, carefully. "Lord Prescott," she said. "I believe I'm engaged for this dance."

The redhead veered off suddenly, and the blonde said, "Not anymore you're not."

Christopher smiled at her. "Please?"

She smiled back, not entirely pleasantly. "Yes, my lord." She took his arm and headed to the floor. "It's the supper waltz, you know. I was to dance with Marquess Korby until Gaila intercepted him."

"Gaila?" He looked behind him. "That's Ellen's daughter? I should have known."

"Yes, my lord," Lady Christine said. "You have been gone for nearly a decade."

He looked at her and laughed. "I suppose I deserve that."

"And more, my lord." She smiled at him again, and this time it was entirely poisonous.

"You don't like me," he observed as they danced. He was only a bit stiff on the turns, he was pleased to note.

"You left," she said.

"I had duties."

"That was the first four years," Lady Christine said. "Do you care to explain the next five?" Suddenly, like a candle being blown out, her entire demeanor changed. "I'm so sorry, Lord Prescott. I should not have said that. Please forgive me. We are, of course, all grateful for your service to and sacrifice for our country."

"Apology accepted, Lady Christine. It was, I suspect, immature for me to believe that I could disappear for so long and not invoke your wrath." He smiled at her again.

"I do not feel wrath towards you," she said, but he knew she was lying.

"I expect that if I ask you about Lady Eve, you will not answer."

"I will not, my lord."

"We will run out of conversation topics well before the end of the meal, Lady Christine, if you do not wish to speak about the primary subject we have in common."

"Perhaps you should have thought of that before you requested the supper waltz, my lord," she said tartly.

Christopher laughed again. "I am sure you know that I just arrived."

"I am aware, my lord."

"I apologize for displeasing you by my mere presence, my lady."

Lady Christine sighed. "You do not displease me by your mere presence," she said, "as you know, Lord Prescott. I am displeased with you on my sister's behalf, and I did wish to waltz with the marquess."

Christopher looked over at Korby, dancing with Miss Gaila Seabourne. "I daresay Miss Seabourne is doing nothing but singing your praises."

"Probably," Lady Christine said, her lips twisting as she tried not to smile.

"You've grown up quite nicely," he offered.

"Thank you, my lord. I will not be marrying you under any circumstances, my lord."

"Chrissy, I remember you with pigtails and a brand-new pony. I apologize for finding you less than ravishing, but any beauty I see in you is a reflection of Eve's."

"Please don't call me that," she said, and looked at him, wide-eyed. "You have quite a row to hoe in front of you."

"I know," he said, imbuing the words with a wealth of feeling. "You will not actively work against me?"

"I will not," she said, "provided you promise that your intentions are entirely aboveboard."

"Lady Christine, if there is any doubt in your mind that I returned to London with any intentions other than marrying Lady Eve, I wish to banish it now."

She nodded. "All right; I can accept that. She still may try to kill you, you know." She smiled, genuinely, for the first time since they'd started dancing.

"I would expect no less," he said.

* * *

  
Eve was reading the latest novel by Miss Austen in bed when a tap came on her door. "Evie, I know you're awake."

"Come in, Chrissy," she said, placing a bookmark into her book and setting it on the bedside table.

Christine bounded in and perched on the foot of the bed, already wearing her nightgown. "So, Evie, how are you feeling?"

"I'm fine," she said, which was essentially true—two hours of novel-reading had mostly cleared her mind of the earlier incidents. Mostly. "How was the rest of your evening?"

"I had a very interesting partner for the supper waltz," Christine said.

"Marquess Korby?" Eve asked, trying to recall her sister's dance card.

"No," she said. "Someone of a much longer acquaintance of mine."

Eve closed her eyes and took a breath. "I am sorry that you had to undergo that." It was not worth pretending that she misunderstood her sister.

Christine shrugged. "He's remarkably pleasant, other than the fact that I have hated him for nine years."

Eve smiled briefly. "You don't need to hate him on my behalf, Christine."

Chrissy grabbed her sister's hand and squeezed it. "It does not signify, Evie. I've hated him for half my life. It's a difficult habit to break."

"Did he—" She hated herself for asking, but did anyway. "Did he say anything about me?"

"What do you think?" Christine asked.

"I think if he did, he was very careful about it," Eve said. "So I should expect a card and a bouquet of roses tomorrow?"

"He didn't say," Christine said, "but I would not be surprised. Are you sure that he and Riverside cannot duel for your affections rather than mine?"

"Riverside danced with me solely to inform me that Lord Prescott had returned to town and was intending to see me." Eve sighed. "I may have lost my footing and kicked him in the knee."

Chrissy laughed, then leaned forward and kissed her sister on the forehead. "Please try to get some sleep tonight, Evie. You must look positively ravishing tomorrow."

"You as well, Chrissy. I may have one potential admirer tomorrow, but you shall have dozens."

Christine laughed. "It only takes one, Eve." She squeezed her hand again and left, closing the door gently behind her.

Eve opened her book again. It was going to be a long night.


	2. Chapter 2

_In which there is a nearly unbearable amount of domesticity_  
The next morning  
Riverside House, Patterson House, and Hyde Park

  
Lieutenant—well, ex-Lieutenant; he'd resigned his commission—Leonard H. McCoy woke just after dawn, as per usual, and stared at the ceiling until his brain caught up. It took him a few moments to remember that he was neither in a damp tent somewhere in France, nor in his bedroom in his parents' home outside of Edinburgh, nor in the home he'd so briefly shared with his wife. No, he was in one of the myriad guest bedrooms in the London house of the Earl of Riverside, who until a few months ago he merely knew as "Captain Kirk."

And his daughter Joanna was just a floor away, in the nursery, with a brand-new governess and a nursemaid. Just the thought of her made him smile, albeit not without regret. He'd hoped, in that way that men with brand-new wives often did, that he'd left Jocelyn with child before he'd gone off to serve, but to learn that she'd died bringing his little girl into the world still ached. He'd gotten a letter saying Joanna had been born, but his sister-in-law had not seen fit to tell him that Jocelyn had died. The minute he'd gotten back, he'd gone to Edinburgh to find them both.

He'd gotten only one.

That was nigh on six months ago. He'd spent the intervening time living with his sister-in-law and her husband, getting Joanna to believe that he was her father. About the time that it had finally worked, Jamie Kirk had shown up on his doorstep and begged him to move to London to help him fend off the matchmaking mamas. Being that he owed the boy his life many times over, he couldn't refuse—especially considering how poorly he and Jocelyn's sister got on.

Since he'd been in London, Jamie had been invited to hundreds of social events, and had refused all of them until their former commander had come over for supper and had casually mentioned that he was considering renewing his acquaintance with one Lady Eve Chapel. Jamie had gone into immediate tactical mode, planning a campaign that involved the three of them, as well as Miss Joanna. Captain Pike—that is, Lord Prescott—had protested, as did McCoy for himself and on behalf of his daughter, but Jim would not be stopped and he had accepted invitations on behalf of all of them to a ball that evening that, his sources told him, would be graced by the presence of one Lady Christine Chapel and her chaperone and oldest sister, Lady Eve.

Lady Christine Chapel was extraordinarily beautiful; he hadn't seen the sister, but from Lord Prescott's descriptions, she was her sister's equal, if ten years older. McCoy heaved a sigh. Neither of the Chapel ladies were for him. If he was lucky, he'd find a nice young miss of his own with a nice dowry to add to his small-but-not-nonexistent fortune.

The sun was well-risen, so he threw himself out of bed and padded to the washstand, splashing water over his face. He dressed, shaved, and attempted to put his hair into some sort of order in a reasonably-short period of time, and went downstairs to see about breakfast.

McCoy had polished off one plate of toast, sausage, and kippers before he heard tiny feet racing down the stairs and slightly more sedate adult feet following behind. Joanna burst into the breakfast room before her governess could stop her, and said, "Daddy!"

"Miss Joanna!" Miss Colt said, horrified, as McCoy stood up and swung his daughter into his arms.

"It's all right, Miss Colt," he said. The governess was strawberry-blonde, cute as a button, and no more than eighteen, although she'd told them she was twenty-three. He had his suspicions about her name, as well. McCoy felt remarkably paternal towards her, as did (inexplicably) Jamie, and they were both hoping she would be able to handle his daughter for the long-term. "Joanna, lass, if you run inside the house, you may fall and hurt yourself."

"No, I won't, Daddy. I'm ever so careful." She looked up at him with big hazel eyes, same as his own, though the ringlets in her brown hair were straight from her mother.

He couldn't do anything but smile in return, which wouldn't serve for disciplinary purposes. He kissed her on the forehead and set her down on the floor. "Have you eaten already?"

"Yes, Daddy," she said. "Can we go riding today?"

"May we go riding today," Miss Colt corrected her.

"May we go riding today?" Joanna parroted.

"We'll see, Joanna," he said. "I do not know what Uncle Jamie has planned, but perhaps later this morning?"

'Uncle' Jamie himself strode into the breakfast room right then, as if he'd been waiting for an entrance cue. "McCoy," he said, clapping McCoy on the shoulder. "Miss Joanna McCoy, how lovely it is to see you this morning."

Joanna giggled and buried her face in her father's leg.

"Miss Colt," Jim said, acknowledging the governess's presence. She blushed and backed up a step, and McCoy raised an eyebrow. Of course she was in love with Jamie. He'd yet to meet a female person between the ages of—he looked at Joanna—five and _death_ who wasn't.

"So," Jamie said. "What's on the schedule for today?"

"I would very much like to go riding," Joanna piped up, and Jamie looked down at her and smiled.

"I think we might be able to arrange that," he said. "But today, your father and I must pay a social visit. Would you mind waiting until we return?"

McCoy looked at the clock on the mantel. It was barely half-past eight, and social visits could not be conducted until noon at the very earliest. They had more than enough time to ride with Joanna—and by 'ride' he meant 'walk beside her as she sat on the oldest, most docile pony Jamie had'—and still be ready to pay whatever social visit he meant. He opened his mouth to say as much, but thought better of it as Joanna was already nodding her head in agreement.

"I will be patient," she said, and McCoy smiled fondly.

Miss Colt said, "Miss Joanna, we must leave your father and the earl to their business now. Would you like to explore the garden before it is too sunny?"

"Yes, I would like that very much," Joanna said, absolutely properly, and then ruined the moment by pulling on McCoy's trouser leg to be picked up for a hug. He obliged, setting her back down, and she curtseyed to Jamie before running out of the room.

"I'm sorry, sir, my lord," Miss Colt said, dropping a quick curtsey. "I've been working on manners, but she's only five."

"We know," Jamie said, and she dropped another curtsey and scampered out the door, calling after her charge. "Damn, that daughter of yours has energy."

"She does at that," McCoy said, smiling. "And what do you have planned for the next three and a half hours, before we go pay your unknown social visit? For that matter, why on earth must I go with you on a social visit?"

"I have estates to run," Jamie said, "and I am not going to visit Lady Christine Chapel without having you for a second."

"It's certainly not a duel," McCoy said. "Lady Christine?"

"Well, I certainly can't go visit Lady Eve. She wouldn't admit me if her life depended on it."

"Why are you visiting either of them?"

"I sent her flowers," Jamie said, as if that explained everything.

"I'm sure this makes perfect sense to a master tactician such as yourself, but for one who was employed during the battle as a surgeon's assistant, would it please your lordship to make the plans perhaps a bit more clear?" McCoy said, imitating Jamie's London drawl.

"It's quite simple. The first plan of attack is to visit Lady Christine at precisely noon, at which time a certain Lord Prescott shall be visiting a Lady Eve at the same address. My presence at Patterson's address—with the addition of a Scottish lieutenant with a tragic past—will clearly preoccupy all the women there, and Lord Prescott will have Lady Eve's attention all to himself."

McCoy could think of fifteen ways in which that plainly wouldn't work, but he kept his complaints to himself. "And what is the secondary plan?"

"I believe I shall keep that plan to myself," Jamie said, and McCoy rolled his eyes. He'd been around the younger man long enough to know that meant there wasn't a secondary plan.

Three hours or so later, McCoy watched Jamie retie his cravat for the third time, causing his valet to throw his hands in the air and leave in a huff. "Are you sure you aren't courting Lady Christine?" he asked.

"She is lovely, I'll admit, but no; she's not to my tastes." Jamie tweaked a fold and declared his handiwork 'sufficient,' and they left.

* * *

  
Lady Eve inspected the piles of flowers in the hallway and shook her head. There were twenty-five bouquets, all variations on daisies, since Chrissy had let slip that they were her favorite flower. Didn't fashionable gentlemen have more imagination? She started writing down names so that her sister could thank the gentlemen properly when they came to call.

Ahh, but at the back, there was a bouquet with no daisies in it at all. Interesting. Eve plucked the card and stopped dead, seeing handwriting she hadn't read in years. The bouquet—red and white roses, how subtle—was, of course, from Lord Prescott and addressed to her, with merely a "Yours, Chr. Pike, Baron Prescott" for signature. For it to be at the back, he must have sent it over very early. It was barely ten now, and visiting hours would start at noon. She had two hours to escape.

Her first order of business was organizing someone else to chaperone Christine before luncheon, and fortunately, their mother was awake and up to the challenge. "Does this mean I get to meet the fabled earl of Riverside?" the countess of Patterson asked as her maid finished dressing her hair.

"Yes," Eve said, and hesitated. It would be proper to inform her mother that Christopher may stop by, but she didn't want to. Nevertheless, she said, "Mother, it is possible that I will have a caller as well."

Lady Patterson looked at her daughter. "If you desire to escape the presence of this caller, there is only one gentleman it could be."

Eve raised her chin. "I have received flowers from Baron Prescott, yes."

"Are you sure you do not wish to see him, Evie?"

"I do not."

"You do not have to leave, my dear. We could turn him away. He has certainly done enough to deserve our censure." Lady Patterson looked altogether too sympathetic, and Eve closed her eyes briefly.

"No, mother. He is a hero now; we certainly cannot turn him away."

"I suppose you are right," Lady Patterson said, patting the top of her head to settle the pins.

Her next step was penning a quick note to Lord Spockton and sending a footman over to deliver it. She waited in the library and did not tap her toe in impatience the entire time, but considered it. Just under an hour later, she had a response—the one she anticipated, as Lord Spockton was entirely predictable in some matters—ordered her horse readied, and flew upstairs to change into a riding habit.

While she was dressing, Christine let herself into Eve's room. "Evie, are you deserting me?"

"Mother will be with you," Eve said, buttoning her jacket.

"Does this have anything to do with Lord Prescott?"

"Of course it has something to do with Lord Prescott," Eve said. "I do not wish to see him this morning. Please do not be exceptionally rude to him," she added.

Christine shot her an odd look. "I will not, since it is your wish. With whom are you riding?"

"Lord Spockton." Eve found the hat that matched her blue riding habit and perched it atop her hair.

Christine frowned. "You and he are quite friendly."

"He is interesting company," Eve said, jabbing a pin through the hat, "and he is not remotely likely to think of me in a romantic sense."

"Oh, I doubt that," her sister said. "You are very beautiful, and you and Lord Spockton sometimes seem to speak the same language."

"I appreciate your desire to see me happy, Christine, but please believe me when I say that Lord Spockton thinks of me as a sister or cousin." Eve stuck a final pin through her hat, checked her appearance in the cheval-glass, and headed for the door. "I will see you at lunch, my dear."

Lord Spockton arrived at precisely 11:30, and they were off and riding, trailed by a maid on a pony, mere moments later. "Where do you wish to ride, my lady?"

"Hyde Park will do," Eve said. Her mare, Judith, nipped at Lord Spockton's gelding, and she reined her in easily. "Unless you have a preference?"

"Hyde Park is acceptable," he said in his inimitably dry manner.

* * *

  
It didn't take Jamie, McCoy, and Captain—Lord Prescott more than a minute to figure out that Lady Eve Chapel had—quite rudely, McCoy thought privately—deserted her sister. They paid their respects to Lady Christine, though, and conversed with her and eight other gentlemen politely.

In response to a question about her favorite pastimes, asked by the young and brash Lord Riley, she gave a peculiar answer, though. "Oh, I very much enjoy _riding_ ," she said, with a breathless emphasis that seemed out of character to McCoy. "I especially enjoy riding around the _Serpentine_ in _Hyde Park_. It is quite _beautiful_ at this time of year. Don't you agree, _Lord Prescott_?"

Lord Prescott looked up smoothly. "Why, yes, Lady Christine, it is quite picturesque in the spring." The conversation turned to other topics, but no more than ten minutes after that, both Jamie and Lord Prescott made their excuses and left. McCoy trailed after them, having been included in Jamie's excuses.

"That was a stroke of luck," Lord Prescott said, as they waited for the groom to bring their horses.

"Indeed," Jamie said. "I thought that Lady Christine quite disapproved of you."

"I did as well," Lord Prescott said. "Well, shall we?" They both grinned.

McCoy looked back and forth between the two of them, and finally asked, "Shall we what?"

"Go to the Serpentine to search out Lady Eve, of course," Jamie said.

 _Of course._ "We should return to Riverside House and fetch Joanna first," McCoy said.

Jamie looked at him, and a smile spread on his face slowly. He slapped McCoy in the shoulder. "Good man!" The horses arrived, and McCoy steadfastly ignored the warmth spreading throughout him at Jamie's approval of his suggestion.

Half an hour later, on foot except for Joanna and her pony and accompanied by Miss Colt, they approached the north side of the water, opposite Rotten Row. It was nearly one in the afternoon, so McCoy did not have much hope of seeing Lady Eve, but the other gentlemen clearly did, and he deferred to their superior knowledge.

Whatever it was they knew turned out to be right, as they passed a group of giggling ladies and saw the haughty and exotic Viscount Spockton escorting a lovely, dark-haired lady with a very familiar jawline, dressed in a blue riding habit, on a brown mare. "Well-done," McCoy said under his breath.

"Spock!" Jamie called out. "Why, Lady Eve, how lovely it is to see you in daylight."

Lord Spockton looked pained for a moment before giving a nod of acknowledgment to the group. Lady Eve perhaps compressed her lips ever so slightly before responding to Jim's hail. "Lord Riverside." She paused significantly before continuing. "Lord Prescott. Lieutenant McCoy, I presume, although I don't believe we've met."

"No, ma'am," McCoy said, with a short bow.

"Lady Eve Chapel, may I present Lieutenant Leonard McCoy and his lovely daughter Joanna," Jamie said, indicating the four-year-old on ponyback, who stared with wide eyes at the two strangers.

"Lieutenant, pleased to make your acquaintance. I believe you know my companion, the Viscount Spockton." Her voice remained absolutely even throughout the entire conversation, although it did not escape McCoy's notice that she'd passed over Lord Prescott very smoothly.

"We've met," McCoy said. "Joanna, please greet the lady."

Colt nudged her charge in the leg as well, and Joanna said, "I am pleased to make your acquaintance, my lady."

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss McCoy. How are you enjoying London?"

Joanna blushed and ducked her head at Lady Eve's question, and mumbled something about it being quite large into the pony's mane.

"Yes, although at times it does not seem large enough," Lady Eve remarked. "If you'll excuse us?" She and the viscount turned their horses and rode around the group easily. All three men were left staring.

A moment passed before Jamie clapped Lord Prescott on the shoulder. "Well, Kit, it appears that the unparalleled lady loathes you."

"A hit, a palpable hit," Lord Prescott quoted in agreement, a strange half-smile that McCoy had never seen before on his face.

Interesting.


	3. Chapter 3

_In which Lady Eve repeatedly outmaneuvers Lord Prescott_  
Various parks, parlors, and ballrooms in London  
Over the next week

  
The following Monday, Christopher sent another dozen red and white roses to Eve, signing the card "Always yours, Chr. Pike, Baron Prescott." He might as well place a standing order, he thought, and signed three more cards before adding a note to that effect for the footman to give the florist. This campaign certainly wasn't going to end overnight.

Jamie had inexplicably shown up for breakfast, McCoy in tow, the former sprawling in a chair as if he owned the place and the latter perching on his seat uncomfortably. "So, what's next?" Jamie asked, pulling a piece of toast apart.

Christopher tilted his head and gave him an amused look. "I understand you've appointed yourself my lieutenant in this endeavor, Jamie, but I'd prefer to finish eating before I make any life-altering tactical decisions."

Jamie rolled his eyes. "You know, when we were on the Continent, you could dine and discuss tactics at the same time."

 _Subordinate twit_ , he thought, not without fondness. "And now I'm back in London, and I have decided that a gentleman does not retain a skill."

"I have chosen to retain the skill, and I am a gentleman," Jamie pointed out. "Also, I believe an earl outranks a mere baron."

McCoy coughed into his napkin.

"Clearly," Christopher said, "the only way to resolve this dilemma is to contact the Prince Regent himself and ask his opinion on the matter."

"Oh, that's no fun," Jamie said. "We should go straight to Mad King George himself. I'm sure his opinion will be more enlightening than Prinny's."

"Oh, of course," Christopher said. He finished his tea, looked at the sideboard, and decided against a third helping of anything. He was, after all, thirty-six now.

"Are you done?" Jamie asked hopefully. Christopher saw McCoy shake his head slightly and smile.

"I suppose I'm done," he said, sitting back in his chair.

"Oh, good," Jamie said, and bounced out of his chair, heading for the door.

"Is he always like this in the mornings?" Christopher asked McCoy, rising and following at a more sedate pace.

"Sometimes I send him to play with Joanna before breakfast so they can both sit still for a half hour to eat," the former lieutenant said, walking beside him. "Sir."

Christopher pressed his lips together to hold back a laugh. "The earl of Riverside is either a five-year-old or a puppy, eh?"

"Something like that." McCoy's lips twisted.

Jamie was pacing the library when the other two men arrived. "All right, Kit, what's next?"

"Jamie, surely you have better things to do with your time." Christopher settled into one of the chairs flanking the fireplace. "Ahh, this is nice. All I need is the hound to complete the picture."

"I don't, actually," Jamie said. "My estates practically run themselves."

Christopher raised an eyebrow. "You have a seat in Parliament. You could take it up."

"You have one, too," Jamie said.

"And, unsurprisingly," Christopher said, "I spent yesterday afternoon, while you were buying horses, attending debate."

"And what were they debating?"

"The Corn Act," he replied. "Jamie, when your father was in Parliament, he introduced a bill to abolish slavery in the Empire. Surely you can do _something_."

Jamie's face hardened. "The bill died in debate. For that matter, you never met my father, so it is unfair to invoke his specter."

"True enough," he allowed. "What do you feel should be my next step in pursuing Lady Eve, o master tactician?"

"Everything I know about tactics, I learned from you," Jamie said, absolutely serious for a moment. "But, of course, if you've forgotten some, I would be more than happy to remind you."

Christopher laughed, and before he could respond, a footman scratched at the door. He called, "Come," and the footman—Tyler—entered, holding out a silver salver on which there was a single sheet of paper, folded hastily and asymmetrically. His name—no, his title—was scrawled across one side. He opened it.

 _Prescott,_ he read,

 _If you hadn't guessed, I've thrown my lot in with your side. Lady Eve might have said something about the wind being perfect this morning and may have just sent a note off to someone like Lord Spockton, so it is possible they will be somewhat near the Upper Brook Street Gate by ten this morning. We are attending the Smythe-Smith musicale this evening, but I would not show up unless you are more of a glutton for punishment than I thought._

Lady Christine

A smile spread across his face, and Jamie said, "What?"

"We've got an ally," he said, and passed the note along.

McCoy leaned over to read over Jamie's shoulder and asked, "What's the Smythe-Smith musicale?"

Christopher groaned. "Imagine the worst rendition of Mozart that you've ever heard by a fumble-fingered violinist and multiply by four. I believe Lady Patterson is somehow related to the family. I made the mistake of accompanying Eve to the event once. Never again." He shuddered theatrically.

"Well then," Jamie said. "To the park?"

"At ten," he agreed.

* * *

  
It didn't take long to locate Eve and Lord Spockton. Christopher stopped in his tracks as soon as he saw her. "My God, she's amazing," he breathed.

"I don't doubt that, Kit, but what makes you say so? I can't even see her." Jamie craned his head to follow the other man's gaze.

"Do you see the gold kite up there? She's controlling it." He pointed, and McCoy and Jamie both turned to watch.  
There were two kites, a blue one and a gold one; the blue one was sedately riding the air currents, with the occasional dip or turn, but the gold one was circling and weaving in a very precise pattern.

"Impressive," Jamie said, having realized it as well. "Are you sure that she's the one with the gold kite?" Christopher gave him an annoyed look, and Jamie retreated quickly. "I mean, there are two kite-flyers over there."

"Yes," he said patiently, as if Jamie were a six-year-old, "and one of the two kite-flyers—the one wearing a dress—is moving her arms around quite a bit, and the other—the one wearing breeches and a jacket—is barely moving at all. Also," he said, resuming walking, "I bought her that kite, or one very similar, ten years ago."

"Oh," Jamie said, hurrying to catch up. "You know, she spends an awful lot of time with Lord Spockton."

Christopher shot him a look over one shoulder. "And?"

"Do we need to consider him competition?"

Christopher stopped again. "I—no?" He frowned. "Presumably if he had designs on Eve, he could have asked for her hand at any point in the last nine years."

McCoy snorted, and both men turned to him. He raised an eyebrow. "I've only been in London for weeks, and even I've heard that the young Lord Spockton's mother is Indian. Let's not pretend for a moment that the Earl of Patterson would let his eldest daughter marry a Scot, let alone a half-breed from Asia, even if his father is a marquess."

Christopher got a queer feeling in his midsection and said hastily, "All that aside, McCoy, she does not interact with him like a lover." _And I should know,_ he did not add. Jamie nodded hastily, and McCoy shook his head but kept mum.

By the time they reached Eve and Lord Spockton, the two were surrounded by seven children and three nursemaids. McCoy pressed his lips together to avoid laughing; and Jamie slapped Christopher on the shoulder. "A blockade of youngsters. Innovative. I'll have to remember that for the next campaign."

Christopher just shook his head.

* * *

  
The next morning brought with it another note from Lady Christine, detailing a morning expedition to an orphanage and an evening spent _en famille_ ; Christopher sent Jamie and McCoy a note saying he intended to attend Parliament that day. Jamie did not appear.

Wednesday afternoon Eve was visiting a relative who was indisposed, and that evening the family would be attending the Hollisters' event. Christopher sorted through the invitations on the mantle until he found that one, and sent over a hasty and late response. Fortunately, his status as a war hero made those somewhat acceptable, and he was willing to trade on his reputation as long as it would work.

He arrived fashionably late, flanked by Jamie and McCoy, all dressed in their finest again (actually, he thought perhaps McCoy was dressed in Jamie's finest, but close enough), and split up to write their names on the cards of eligible young women or to find the punch bowl, depending.

Christopher spotted the Chapel party apparently at the same time as Jamie; McCoy intercepted them on the way and handed off glasses of punch.

Jamie took a glass and picked off Miss Seabourne, who went gladly; McCoy held out his glass of punch to Lady Christine Chapel, who smiled at him and accepted the glass. Christopher offered his to Lady Eve, who looked mutinous for a moment and then relaxed into a smile. "Thank you, Lord Prescott," she said, but handed the glass to her blonde companion—he thought her name was Rand. "Lieutenant McCoy, I believe this is your dance."

McCoy froze for a moment, but good manners took over and he held out a hand. He shot an apologetic glance at Christopher, who gave him a half-smile and offered his hand to Miss Rand instead. Lady Christine entered the dance floor on the arm of a young man who looked about twelve but who was probably well older than she was. Christopher shook his head.

Miss Rand turned out to be a lovely partner; she danced prettily and spoke correctly on many topics, and he fleetingly thought he might find her attractive had—well, had he been an entirely different person. Nonetheless, he returned her to her mother, spoke for a moment or two, and searched for Lady Eve.

"I'm sorry, Captain," McCoy said, when Christopher found him. "I returned her to her sister and a moment later, they disappeared."

He sighed. "Of course they did."

Jamie showed up, a moment later, a bit pink in the face. "Did you enjoy your dance with Miss Seabourne?" Christopher asked, a half-smile on his face.

"She's . . . direct," Jamie said. "Wanted to know if and when I'd be asking for Lady Christine's hand."

"And how did you answer?"

Jamie shrugged. "I said I was certain that she was a lovely young woman and that I respected her greatly but that I would most likely not be courting her. She then demanded to know why not, and I had no answer. So it's possible that I may actually _be_ courting Lady Christine."

Christopher blinked a few times before laughing. McCoy was perhaps not entirely surprisingly silent.

* * *

  
"Eventually, you'll have to speak to him," Christine said, apropos of nothing, while she and Eve worked on correspondence after lunch.

"I have spoken with him," Eve said. "Last Friday, I thanked him. Monday, I acknowledged his presence. Wednesday, at the Hollisters' ball, I accepted punch from him."

"And passed it off to Jane to dance with the dashing lieutenant instead. But you know what I mean," Christine said, leveling a glance at her sister.

"I do," Eve admitted. She sanded her letter to Cousin Shaw and folded it neatly in thirds.


	4. Chapter 4

_In which there is a musicale, and Nyota Uhura makes an appearance_  
St. Ives House  
London  
Friday evening

  
All of fashionable London had, this evening, decided to attend the Duke of St. Ives's musicale, and the Earl of Patterson and his family were no exception, although they were sitting rather haphazardly. The earl and countess were in one row, along with Lady Eve and the Viscount Spockton. Lady Christine had chosen to join Lord Seabourne's party; Lord Michael swore he'd be along later but Eve privately had her doubts. The two other daughters—the Countess of Barrows and Lady Tracy—were with their husbands in different corners.

Eve and the viscount discussed his latest scientific endeavor—using kites, apparently, to measure wind currents—as they waited for the much-anticipated young Indian singer. A murmur went through the crowd, and she turned to follow their attention.

Ah; three gentlemen had just entered—one with dark blond hair, one with light brown hair, and a slightly taller one with dark brown hair. They did, she was forced to admit, make an excellent picture.

  
Just then, the pianist launched into a rendition of an orchestral overture— _Don Giovanni_ , Eve realized after a few measures. She'd seen the opera a month or so before, at its London premiere.

Lord Spockton sat up in his chair; he never particularly slouched, but his back was ramrod straight, his shoulders precisely aligned perpendicular to his spine, and his chin exact. If she hadn't known he was human, Eve might have suspected she was sitting next to an unknown Elgin marble. She was rarely one to speak during musical performances, but she had the near-overwhelming urge to say something to Lord Spockton, to break his façade. Somehow she managed to keep herself under control, and contented herself with watching him out of the corner of one eye and pointedly ignoring Lord Prescott and his party.

The overture ended, and a young woman, long black hair pulled into a braid, wearing a gold dress in the European fashion, draped with a matching gold cloth over her shoulder, crossed to the front of the open area by the pianoforte—the much-anticipated (at least by Lord Spockton) Nyota Uhura. She certainly _looked_ Indian, but when she opened her mouth to deliver an aria by Handel, her voice wasn't in the least exotic.

An hour passed, of mixed vocal and solo pianoforte work, with the entire audience transfixed. Eve was no exception; she had never heard such a pure, silvery soprano tone in her entire life. Unlike the majority of the audience, she'd actually paid attention to most of the sopranos she'd heard at the opera, and she was still enthralled with the Indian woman's voice.

After Miss Uhura and the accompanist had withdrawn for intermission, Eve turned to Lord Spockton. "Well! Did she meet your expectations?"

"And then some," Lord Spockton said, with something not entirely unlike a smile.

"She certainly had an amazing voice," Lady Patterson agreed. "Why, I believe your father actually remained awake for the majority of the first half."

Lord Patterson snored.

A polite cough sounded, and Eve's father started awake. "Eh?" Evie, her mother, and Lord Spockton all turned to their left, and Lord Riverside, Lord Prescott, and Lieutenant McCoy stood there. Out of the corner of her eye, Eve saw Lord Spockton stiffen minutely. She plastered a pleasant expression on her face and greeted all three men appropriately.

"Did you enjoy the vocalist?" her mother asked.

"Very much so, Lady Patterson," Lord Riverside said, nodding. "I had not had the pleasure of hearing any of the arias from _Don Giovanni_ yet—I understand it is one of Herr Mozart's later operas?"

"It was his fourth-to-last opera," Lord Spockton confirmed, unexpectedly in Eve's view. "His second with the librettist da Ponte."

"Ah," Lord Riverside said, obviously not as knowledgeable about opera as Lord Spockton—but then again, few were. "And do you know the composer of the lied performed about two works before the end? I found myself quite captivated by that song."

"Herr Franz Schubert, a young man from Austria," Lord Spockton said. "The title is _Gretchen am Spinnrade_."

"Ah, yes, the one with the text from Faust," Lieutenant McCoy said. Everyone in the box turned to look at him, and he colored. "At least, I believe it was from Faust."

"It was," Lord Spockton said.

Eve sat back and let the three men awkwardly discuss music and literature; it was highly amusing. A moment or two later, she glanced up and happened to catch Lord Prescott's eye. He wasn't paying attention to Riverside, Spockton, and McCoy; he was watching her with a peculiar half-smile on his face. Rather than looking away immediately, her first instinct, she met his gaze for a moment or two. The half-smile deepened into a full smile, one she remembered from nine years ago. More than anything she wanted to smile back, but that was a purely instinctual response and she tamped it down with the ease of nine years of practice.

Before she could decide whether to break the eye contact or to let him do so, the lights dimmed and the three men quickly said their farewells and left. As soon as it was polite to do so, Eve turned back to face the stage. However, when the men were out of earshot, Lady Patterson leaned over to her daughter and whispered in her ear, barely loud enough to be heard over the crowd, "He still loves you."

Eve gave her mother a short nod. She knew.

* * *

  
Alex, Lord Spockton, was grateful to Lord Riverside and his party for perhaps the first time in his life; they had provided a focus to his scattered thoughts during the intermission. He had come to the musicale with the intention of enjoying the music, and had very much done so. Upon the discovery that Nyota Uhura was not only from his mother's land but quite young and possessed of very symmetrical features, his customary composure was somewhat overset. Lady Eve was her usual calming influence; serene herself, she expected nothing from him other than what he was, and he might have considered her a potential mate except for the fact that, from the first day he'd known her, he'd realized that the absent Lord Prescott still occupied the entirety of her heart.

As evidenced by the fact that she was so assiduously avoiding the man when she could, and gaining a haunted look when she could not. If it were not in his nature to stand back and observe, he might consider dropping a hint to one of the two parties so that their difficulties could be resolved more precipitously. On the other hand, Lord Prescott had treated her abominably, and he should under no circumstances encourage that.

He closed his eyes briefly and attempted to re-order his thoughts, concentrating on his breath as his mother had taught him so many years ago. A few minutes later, Miss Uhura retook the stage, and the audience focused much of its attention on her presence, tall and slender and gowned in deep green.

Time dilated strangely; it was as if he were experiencing every single moment of Miss Uhura's performance simultaneously as a lifetime and a mere second. He heard every note she sang as an entire chorus and the pure tones of her voice alone. Just under an hour later, she took her final bow, and Alex was able to resurface enough to know what he had to do.

He made polite excuses to Lady Eve and her family and escaped just before the mad crush of the crowd; a well-placed hundred-pound note got him to the door of her dressing room (and a second to keep others away), and a moment later he tapped at the door to Miss Uhura's room.

"Come," she said, and he entered; the room, normally a guest chamber, was neat as a pin, and she sat at one end of it, still fully dressed, removing makeup with a cloth. The sight of her without makeup—he froze. Her eyes were still almond-shaped and dark; her cheekbones were still high, but her skin was much, much darker than it had been on stage, and the lovely fall of straight black hair was apparently a wig, as it sat on a head-shaped stand on the table. Her actual hair was tightly curled and cropped close to her head.

It was clearly a sign of his surprise—perhaps even distress—that he could not think of the societally-expected statement at this juncture; instead, what came out of his mouth was, "You are not from India."

"No, my lord," she said, turning to look at him, apology in her tone. "You are, though." Her voice was still musical; her accent, carefully upper-class Londoner.

"My mother was," he explained. "I—I am sorry, Miss Uhura. I should not have come."

"You are not the first to visit after a performance, and I doubt you will be the last, my lord. If I may know your name?" She stood, barely shorter than he.

"Spockton," he said. "Alexander Grayson, Viscount Spockton."

"And you expected me to resemble your mother?"

"Perhaps," he said. "It is terribly presumptuous of me, but I would ask from where you originally hail?"

"Africa," she said, smiling. "A city called Kisiwa Cha Mvita—I believe the English call it Mombasa."

"Ah," Alex said. He was not as familiar with the geography of Africa as he was of Asia, but he thought it was on the coast. "And—it is certainly none of my business and I do not mean to pry, but—"

"An Italian woman—I do not know what was her business in Mvita, but she was there—heard me sing, seven years ago, and offered me lessons and a hopeful career. I traveled to Naples under her protection, and became the student of a man named Manuel Garcia. Perhaps you have heard of him? Earlier this year he sang the lead in a new opera based on a Beaumarchais play."

"I have not. We do not get much news from the Continental opera scene," he said.

"Ah," Miss Uhura said. "Do you enjoy music, or were you merely here to see a countrywoman of your mother's, Lord Spockton?"

"I would be attending the musicale regardless," Alex said, "but I would not be speaking to the soloist had I not thought you to be from India."

She shrugged, an elegantly sensual gesture. "Senor Garcia and Signora Lamberti agreed that if I were to tour England, I would be less of an oddity were I Indian rather than African." One long-fingered hand rose from her side a few inches into the air. "Not, however, by a great deal."

"No," he agreed. The feeling of disappointment in the pit of his stomach was, he noticed in the pause in the conversation, gradually mutating to something else. What, he was not entirely sure. "Your performance was exemplary," he said. "I apologize for not stating that earlier. It was rude of me to inquire about your race before I complimented your voice."

"Thank you," she said, and smiled, teeth a slash of white against her skin.

Suddenly, Alex knew exactly to what the feeling in the pit of his stomach had mutated. Even without the golden powder and straight black wig, Nyota Uhura was an astonishingly beautiful woman. Not in the way he had been accustomed to seeing ladies, with rosy-pale complexions and elaborately-piled curls, but as he'd noted earlier, her features were very symmetrical, if exotic, and they somehow felt—familiar, as if he'd seen her face many times before.

He hadn't. She didn't look in the least Indian, or in the least like his mother or anyone he'd ever known before. This was—entirely illogical, that he should be attracted to an opera singer. She was not of his social class. Even his mother had been a prince's daughter. He opened his mouth to take his leave of her, but instead, as before, he said, "What does your name mean?"

She laughed at him, a musical fall of notes. "What does your name mean?"

"'Alexander' means 'defender of man,'" he replied immediately. "'Grayson' means 'son of the gray-haired man.' I have other names, but they are immaterial."

"You are a strange man, my lord," she said. "I hope you do not take offense at my words."

"I do not," he said. He was well aware of the fact that he was strange, and he'd been called worse. "I must go."

Miss Uhura blinked. "Yes," she said after a moment. "I am sure you must attend to social matters. Thank you for your kind words about my performance. I trust you will not give my secret away?"

"I will not," he promised, but did not move to leave. "Are you in the country long?"

"Our ship does not leave until Monday," she said. "We return to Naples after that. Senor Garcia has performances in the near future, and I am to sing for the Principessa di Marchesi."

"Are you much occupied between now and then?" He did not know why he asked such a question; he had no intention of seeing her again after this night.

"I sing at a private party hosted by the Duke of Gloucester and Edinburgh in honor of an Oriental prince late tomorrow, but I am otherwise unoccupied."

"Ah," he said, and paused.

"I am staying at Grillion's, but I do not anticipate receiving visitors," Miss Uhura said.

He was fairly certain that by that she meant she was taking no lovers, but despite his physical attraction to her, his thoughts had not strayed that direction. "I must go," he said again.

"Yes," she agreed again. "My given name, Nyota, means 'star.' My surname derives from the word 'uhuru,' which means 'freedom.'"

Alex felt his face widening into one of his rare smiles. "Lovely, poetic, and fitting," he said. "I take my leave of you, Miss Nyota Uhura. May you have a long, prosperous, and fulfilling career."

"Thank you, Lord Spockton. May you enjoy the same." She smiled back at him, and his heart flipped in his chest—or, at least, it felt so.

He gave a short bow and left. Once outside, he stood still for a moment and took a deep breath, re-squaring his shoulders, before heading to his carriage and home.


	5. Chapter 5

  
_In which things come to a head—figuratively speaking._  
London: in and near Grillion's Hotel, and at Bridgerton House  
Saturday

  
Somewhat after noon, Alex found himself standing in front of Grillion's Hotel. He knew the hotel's reputation for discretion and privacy well, and still he hesitated before sending his card up.

One of the hotel employees showed him to her sitting room a few minutes later. He shifted minutely as he waited, standing by the window, for the lady herself to enter.

She did, a few moments later, dressed in a day dress of spring lawn, a lace cap on her head, hiding her short, not-European hair. "Lord Spockton," she said.

"Thank you for seeing me," he said.

She nodded. "I understand it's rude to be direct, but are you here expecting any special favors?"

"I am not," he said, flushing. "I do not mean to show you any disrespect. Nonetheless, I find myself—desiring your presence."

Miss Uhura smiled, quickly, like the sun coming out from behind clouds. Alex frowned mentally at the sentimentality of such a comparison. "I understand," she said. "I am inexplicably desirous of your presence as well."

There were many questions he wished to ask her after such a statement, but they swirled and caught in his throat. "I am glad," he managed after a moment.

"Shall we sit?" she suggested gently. Alex nodded mutely, and they perched on matching chairs. "Do you want any refreshments? I can call for tea."

"Please do not cause any trouble on my behalf," he said, and she gave a short nod and rang the bell.

"I have been thinking," Alex said, after a moment of not-entirely-comfortable silence. "Is your surname accurate?"

"Freedom?" she asked. "I do not know what you mean."

"Do you have your freedom? If not, I would be willing to help you procure it."

"It is accurate," she said. "I am owned by no one, although I am under the protection, of a sort, of Senor Garcia and Signora Lamberti."

Alex's ears burned at the thought of Senor Garcia touching Miss Uhura in any way other than the most innocent, but he did not say anything. Who was he to judge what a lady in her position needed to do to survive? He ached to say, "I will be your protector," some sort of long-buried deeply possessive urge surfacing from the back of his brain. He said nothing, though, other than repeating, "I am glad."

A servant came with a tea tray, and she served him, tea with neither milk nor sugar. He held the cup gingerly, waiting for it to cool, for a few minutes before he could come up with a polite topic of conversation. "What will you be performing for the Duke this evening?"

Miss Uhura's face brightened at the comment. "I shall be performing several of the arias and songs from the duke's musicale, but I have a brand new song from young Herr Schubert—you are familiar with his works, I gather?" At Alex's nod, she continued. "It has just been written, and although this will not count as the premiere, I am very excited to be performing it."

"What is the title?"

"'Die Forelle'—'The Trout,' that is. Based on a poem by Schubart."

"Do you speak German?" he asked, in that language.

"I do," she replied, also _auf Deutsch_. "Not as well as I speak Italian or English, though."

"Pardon my excessive questions, but how many languages do you speak?"

She paused for a moment. "Three African languages and five European ones—English, French, German, Italian, and Spanish. Yourself?"

"English, German, French, Italian, Latin, Greek, Hindi, Sanskrit, and a smattering of Bengali." His father had only condoned the study of modern languages as long as he had also concentrated his studies on the classics. "As it turned out, I have a talent for languages, much like yourself."

"Yes," she said, and the corners of his mouth curved up slightly. Unlike most of the ladies of his acquaintance, who denied even the most obvious compliments, she accepted his statement as if it were her due. _Miss Uhura and Lady Eve would get on quite splendidly_ , he thought, and then banished the idea from his mind. Such a meeting—between an opera singer and the daughter of the earl of Patterson—could never happen, despite the obvious contradiction of his own presence there.

"Would you like to hear the new lied?" she asked.

Alex nodded, somewhat surprised. "I would be honored."

"Do you play?" she said, gesturing to the spinet in the corner.

He nodded again—his mother had been fascinated with the piano, having only rarely heard one in her childhood, and he'd learned to please her. "Adequately."

Miss Uhura rose gracefully, and he followed her to the piano, seating himself at the bench and smoothing the music she placed on the stand. He stripped off his gloves, looked it over for a moment, asked her for a tempo, and began playing.

The lilting piano part supported a jaunty melody, strophic format; his mind translated the lyrics—about, appropriately, fishing—as she sang them. He juggled analysis of the song, the words, and his own performance effortlessly, leaving the majority of his attention free to enjoy her performance, which was lively and animated.

When the song came to a close, she smiled at him. "Thank you for your accompaniment."

"It is a lovely song, and you perform it well," he said. "The Duke is lucky to be able to have a private performance this evening."

"Thank you," she said. "Do you—" For the first time, she looked hesitant, and Alex schooled his features into something approximating open, polite interest. "Would you mind playing more?"

"Of course not," he said, and shuffled through the stack of music atop the piano. "What would you like to sing?"

An hour later, they were conversing as if they had long been acquainted and performing, despite Alex's flaws due to lack of familiarity with the music, as if they had worked together musically for months. He had never in his life felt so comfortable with another person not his mother. Even Lady Eve kept him somewhat on edge, with her perfect society manners and impeccable appearance. Miss Uhura inexplicably seemed to understand him, to know which questions to ask to invoke his mind and which topics to avoid. If only—no. He would not think about it.

Long before he had fully satisfied his desire for her company, her actual accompanist, a young man of presumably Italian origin based on his looks and slight accent, entered. "I must go," Alex said.

"Thank you so much for helping me with the analysis of 'Die Forelle,'" Miss Uhura said. "It was a lovely afternoon."

"Yes. Yes. I—I thank you for your company and I am glad to have helped you." He stood, retrieving his gloves, and awkwardly knocked some of the music to the ground. Kneeling to retrieve it, he took a couple of deep breaths, shielded by the piano. Sifting through the papers quickly, he found that it had fallen mostly in order and stood, holding the stack. "Please accept my apologies. Some of the sheets are creased."

"No matter," Miss Uhura said. "It appears only to be the corners. I shall accompany you to the stairway."

He offered her his arm, something he did only rarely, disliking physical contact. She took it, and they left the accompanist warming up his fingers. As soon as the door to the sitting room closed and they were left in the small entryway, she turned to him. "Lord Spockton, I understand this is inappropriate, but . . . I would, just once, very much like to hear you say my name."

Alex's mouth went dry; he swallowed reflexively, and clamped down, hard, on any emotions trying to rise at her request. "Nyota," he said, deliberately. "Nyota."

She looked up at him, blinking, and dashed away a single tear. "Thank you," she said.

"You're welcome," he said, and left, with a short bow and no backward glance. He did not feel he had the strength to do otherwise.

* * *

  
Christopher, Jamie, and McCoy were walking with Miss Joanna McCoy and her governess down Albemarle Street when, of all people, Lord Spockton rushed out of Grillion's Hotel and strode down the street, dropping one of his gloves.

"Spock!" Jamie called out, and Lord Spockton's shoulders tightened before he turned. "You dropped a glove," Jamie said, ducking to pick up the glove and holding it out.

"Thank you," Lord Spockton said. "Lord Prescott, Mr. McCoy, Miss McCoy."

"Lord Spockton," Christopher murmured, McCoy echoing him.

At Miss Colt's elbow, Joanna piped up with, "Good afternoon, Lord Spockton."

"If you'll excuse me?" Lord Spockton said, with uncharacteristic vagueness. A moment or two later, though, before he could stride away, he seemed to focus on Christopher himself. "She still loves you, you know."

"I—" He had no idea how to respond to that, and before he could produce a good answer, Spockton was gone. Turning partway, he saw that Jamie, McCoy, Joanna, and Miss Colt were all staring at him, wide-eyed. "That's good news, is it not?"

"Did Spock volunteer information?" Jamie asked. "Information about Lady Eve?"

"I hope so," Christopher said. Miss Colt hustled Joanna off to look at the Royal Institution, which advertised an upcoming scientific lecture.

"I thought he didn't like you," McCoy said, waiting until his daughter was out of earshot.

Jamie laughed. "No; Spock doesn't like me, because I am insufficiently dignified. I don't know his feelings on Kit here."

Christopher shrugged. "I don't know him very well. His father and I have worked together in Parliament, though."

"Anyway!" Jamie said, clapping McCoy on the shoulder (unnecessarily, in Christopher's view). "So the Lady Eve is still enamored of you, such that Lord Emotionless knew about it. Now what do we do?"

"I don't know," Christopher said. "If she would only speak to me, I might have a better clue of what to do."

"Well, you'll see her at the Bridgertons' tonight, yes?"

"Yes," he said. "If I'm lucky, I might even get to dance with her." He shook his head and headed over to Joanna and Miss Colt.

* * *

  
Later that evening, Christopher showed up unfashionably early to Viscount Bridgerton's ball and made awkward conversation with the Duke and Duchess of Hastings, the latter Viscount Bridgerton's sister. The minute that the Earl of Patterson's party arrived, he knew, and he braved the crowd to sign Lady Eve's dance card (and Lady Christine's, just because he could) without a word. She looked at him, eyes haunted, and silently allowed him to claim the supper waltz.

Jamie and McCoy showed up somewhat later; the former requested a dance with Lady Christine, and the latter made a beeline for anything that may have contained alcohol.

The first part of the evening passed in a blur; Christopher was aware that he danced with several lovely young ladies, including Miss Seabourne, Miss Rand, and Lady Christine, but nothing came into focus until the orchestra signaled that it was beginning the supper waltz. He straightened up, ignoring the twinge in his hip, and surveyed the crowd.

Lady Eve was not so far away; he saw her speaking with McCoy by the wall. As he went to claim her hand, Jamie appeared to escort Lady Christine to the floor. Christopher and Eve joined the whirl with a minimum of conversation, and remained that way until a minute or so into the dance.

"How fares your family?" he asked eventually. He had her in proper waltz position, which was nowhere near as close as he wanted to hold her, but he wouldn't release her to anyone.

"They are well," she replied, still stiff in his arms. "The Earl and Countess of Tracy—that is, my sister Caroline and her husband—are expecting their second child in December."

"Congratulations to them."

Another moment or two passed before Eve said, "Where were you?" Her eyes flickered to meet his before returning to look over his shoulder.

"Fighting Napoleon," he said, torn between inward rejoicing and despair. She was finally speaking to him, but she'd started with the difficult questions. "In Europe, primarily."

"That was the first four years," she said. "Where were you for five years after that?"

He exhaled. "Before the first four years were up, it was requested that I stay, given a promotion. I couldn't refuse."

"All right," she said.

He braced himself for her next question, but it didn't come. A moment or two later, the words spilled out of his mouth. "I thought it would only be another year or so. I did write you a letter; I just . . ." He sighed. "I never sent it."

"All right," she said again, her gaze still over his shoulder.

He'd only said a tenth of what he needed to say, but the waltz was close to ending. "Lady Eve, may I call on you—" he belatedly remembered the date "—on Monday?"

"You may," she said, her tone still dispassionate, as if he'd asked her about the weather. Her eyes met his for more than an instant, and she smiled at him—not a full smile, but a start. "You may also escort me into supper," she said, as the music ended.

She was so beautiful. He'd always thought she was beautiful—always known she was beautiful—but he hadn't been this close to her in years, and she took his breath away. "Number One," he whispered.

Eve didn't respond, except with a slight tightening around her mouth. He offered her his arm, and they entered the dining room silently.

* * *

  
McCoy was altogether too sober. He had been to more social events in the last week than his entire life previous, and there was rarely enough to drink. Instead, he danced with the occasional brave debutante and spent most of his time watching Jamie flirt with an entire generation of lovely blonde ladies. It was—disconcerting. He knew that Jamie did not intend to marry any of them; he'd said as much on multiple occasions, and to this point, McCoy had had no reason not to believe him. However—

He was holding Lady Christine altogether too close.

Oh, McCoy was aware that they were dancing a waltz—the supper waltz, nonetheless—but Jamie was still holding her too closely, and smiling at her. He was making her laugh, and although McCoy probably knew the story he was telling, having heard all of Jamie's stories over the years, he still—

He wanted to be the one hearing the story.

Peculiar, that.

McCoy shook his head and headed outside, to clear his head.

* * *

  
Eve did a remarkable job of ignoring the warm, solid presence of Lord Prescott-- _oh, to hell with it_ , she thought. She generally tried not to lie to herself quite as obviously as that. What she had been doing was a remarkable job of pretending to ignore the warm, solid presence of Christopher just to one side of her, even as he passed her various dishes and refilled her glass. Every inch of her skin was well aware of the fact that he was there, and as much as she'd been suppressing it over the last couple weeks, she longed to turn to him and—Well, what would happen after that didn't bear thinking about, being as she was in public.

Suffice it to say, though, any feelings she had had for Christopher Pike at age nineteen had apparently not died from how deeply she'd buried them, and his presence was, to mangle her metaphor a bit further, sunlight and water.

Eventually, though, supper ended, and guests started trickling back into the ballroom. Christopher escorted her into the room and took his leave, with a warm press of her fingers and a smile. Eve took a deep breath—well, as deep as her light corset would allow—and looked around for her parents or sister.

She did not spot either, but she did see Lord Spockton looking somewhat uncomfortable as he chatted with the Viscountess Bridgerton, generally held to be a nice if unconventional lady. Fortunately, she and Lady Bridgerton were acquainted, so Eve went to join the conversation.

"Ah, Lady Eve! You look quite lovely this evening."

"Thank you, Lady Bridgerton," Eve said. She'd greeted the viscount and the dowager viscountess earlier, but not the viscountess. "You are as well. However, I believe that Lord Spockton has promised me this set." The orchestra was playing the opening strains of a country dance.

"Oh! Oh, yes," Lady Bridgerton said. "And I have promised this set to Colin. Or perhaps Benedict." Colin and Benedict being two of the Misters Bridgerton, her brothers-in-law. "If I could only find my fan—"

"It is on the table behind you, Lady Bridgerton," Lord Spockton said, and Eve smiled.

"Thank you, Lord Spockton. Lady Eve."

Lady Bridgerton left, and Eve said, "We do not have to dance if you do not wish." Lord Spockton still looked vaguely uncomfortable, so she said, "We could take a turn on the balcony instead." It was, after all, her favorite benefit of being firmly on the shelf—being allowed to walk with unmarried gentlemen and not having to worry quite so much about her reputation.

"I—yes, that would be quite acceptable." He did not offer her his arm, but then again, he only rarely did, and they walked, side by side, out into the night air.

"Is something troubling you, Lord Spockton?"

He took a deep breath before replying. "Yes, but it is of no consequence."

"All right." She knew when to leave well enough alone, and this was certainly that time.

Sure enough, a moment or two later, he spoke again. "I have—encountered a situation where I am well aware that I could make one decision that would simultaneously cause me to be—to be happy in a way I do not think I have been in years and to be discontent in a way I have always been discontent, but perhaps moreso."

Eve had no idea to what he might refer, but she'd make an attempt because he was her friend. "Do you seek my advice?"

"I do not know." He paused. "If you have any to offer, I would be grateful to hear."

She thought a moment. "I have never known you to be truly happy, Lord Spockton, and I would support quite a few decisions you could make to increase your happiness."

"This would—" He swallowed. "This would not decrease my distance from polite society. I also do not think it would improve my relationship with my father."

Eve realized he must be rather overset, to mention his father at all. Of course she knew that he and his father had had their differences; Lord Spockton's fascination with his mother's people and culture, especially after her death, had not brought the men closer together. "Your father married an Indian princess, brought her to England, introduced her to the queen, and has insisted that his heir be treated as an equal in every way," she pointed out. "I do not think he can judge what you might do to procure your own happiness."

"He did, at that," Lord Spockton murmured, bemused. A moment later he straightened his already-perfect posture and looked directly at her, dark eyes warm in the moonlight. "Lady Eve, I thank you. You have been a fine friend these many years. If our paths do not cross, I wish you all the happiness in the world with your Lord Prescott." She considered protesting, but he shook his head slightly and continued. "He is a good and honorable man, despite an apparent lack of aptitude in communication."

Eve pressed her lips together, both in amusement in at the solitary Lord Spockton judging another man's social aptitude and in sorrow, as she heard the farewell in his words quite clearly. " _Au revoir_ , Lord Spockton. You are always welcome at any house of mine."

Lord Spockton nodded, pressed her fingers briefly with his, and left her alone on the balcony with her thoughts.

"Did Lord Spockton leave you out here by yourself, Lady Eve?" came a familiar, faintly-Scottish voice, and Eve turned to see Lieutenant McCoy leaning against the railing a few feet away. "That was certainly ungentlemanly of him."

"Lieutenant McCoy," she said, and he pushed off the balcony to join her. "Lord Spockton abides by his own rules." He held out an arm, and she took it, inexplicably grateful for some form of human contact. "I did not see you during supper."

"I, ah. I was out here," he admitted. "Needed some fresh air, and got lost in my own head."

"How is your daughter?" she said. The lieutenant's face brightened, and he spoke of Miss Joanna McCoy and her many exploits until they returned to the ballroom.

* * *

  
McCoy's heart skipped a beat when he accompanied Lady Eve back to the ballroom and saw Jamie speaking with Lady Christine again; fortunately, the two couples were on a path to meet and did not diverge.

"Evie! We were about to search for you. Lord Spockton returned to the ballroom and left quite precipitously." Lady Christine dropped Jamie's arm to take her sister's hands, and McCoy released Lady Eve's arm.

"You missed supper," Jamie said, with a shrug and a half smile as the two ladies spoke.

"Excuse us," Lady Eve said over her sister's shoulder. "Thank you, Lieutenant."

"You're welcome," he said, with a short bow, and Jamie followed suit. "Where's Lord Prescott?" he asked, as soon as Lady Eve was out of earshot.

"Kit? He went home. Said his hip was bothering him."

McCoy frowned. Fortunately, Lord Prescott's batman-turned-valet knew something of medicine, and his assistance was not necessary. It hadn't actually been since the war, but he had dug the ball that caused Lord Prescott's current trouble out of his former captain's hip, and still felt some responsibility for the aftermath.

Jamie saw the frown and said, "Oh, don't worry, McCoy, he'll be fine. It also may have been a strategic retreat; if I'm not mistaken, he and the lovely Lady Eve had something approximating a conversation while dancing."

McCoy raised an eyebrow. "Did they."

"Don't worry," Jamie said cheerfully. "We can go reconfigure the campaign plans tomorrow afternoon."

McCoy felt a completely bizarre stab of jealousy at Jamie's words. It made absolutely no sense whatsoever, that he should be jealous of Lord Prescott. Lady Eve was a fine example of a lady, but it was clear that Lord Prescott had managed to rekindle some kind feelings toward himself inside her bosom, and—

Wait.

No, that was incorrect. He had no reason to be jealous of Lord Prescott for monopolizing Jamie's time. Hell, he _lived_ with Jamie; saw him every morning and every evening and often a good deal of the time in between. He did not need every single moment of Jamie's day.

He also did not need to be the exclusive focus of Jamie's attention.

Although—

 _No._

"We should leave soon," he said.

Jamie looked over at him. "This early?"

"Some of us aren't heathens and would like to make it to church tomorrow morning," he drawled, imitating Jamie's London accent.

"Well, all right, then," Jamie said, pushing off and heading for the door. McCoy watched him walk away, admiring the fit of his coat— _No. No!_

He was _definitely_ attending services tomorrow morning. This was—

 _No._


	6. Chapter 6

_In which McCoy gets little relief and Eve and Prescott get rather a lot_  
Church, Patterson House and then Prescott House  
Sunday

  
Jamie insisted on accompanying McCoy to church, which was somewhat unusual. It also precluded church from being the sanctuary it was intended. He needed time away from Jamie to clear his head, which was impossible when the gentleman in question was only a couple of inches away.

As the pastor spoke, his attention wavered. When Jamie shifted—as he did quite often, not being constitutionally suited to sitting still—he would lose a word or two of the sermon before sharply reminding himself why, in fact, he was at church.

"Many waters cannot quench love, neither can floods drown it," quoted the pastor. The theme of the sermon appeared to be a memorial to the recently departed, and McCoy realized with a start that the anniversary of the battle of Waterloo was a mere two days hence.

Odd, it was. He had managed to live an entire year after the battle. Jamie had survived. Even Captain Pike had somehow survived, even if Jamie had had to carry him off the battlefield while injured himself.

Jocelyn hadn't managed to survive childbirth. The pain in his chest coalesced into a hard knot, and he inhaled as best he could.

Jamie turned to him, a worried look on his face, and McCoy gave a slight shake of his head. Jamie nodded, and returned his attention to the sermon.

God help him, his wife was (to him) barely a year cold in her grave; his daughter needed him, and he was contemplating a sin so grave that he couldn't name it, not even to himself. It was almost enough to make a man turn Papist, to have the ease of confession.

Afterwards, they walked home, Jamie chattering about the various people who showed up in church yet sinned all week. McCoy listened with half an ear, his hands stuffed unfashionably into his pockets. Upon entering the hallway, Joanna threw herself at him, and he picked up his daughter with a smile. _This is what is important,_ he reminded himself.

Later that afternoon, he sat in the library reading while Jamie did his accounts, and there was a scratch at the door. "Come," Jamie said, and the butler entered.

"My lord, there is a young woman here who wishes to speak to Miss Colt."

Jamie frowned. "Did she give her name?"

"A Miss Caitlin Barry, my lord."

Barry—probably Irish, McCoy thought. The first name agreed. Miss Colt had an upper-class London accent, but she did also have reddish hair. Perhaps a sister?

"Get Miss Colt; bring her here, and put Miss Barry in the parlor," Jamie instructed. The butler nodded and left, and Miss Colt appeared about five minutes later.

"My lord, is there something wrong?"

Jamie stood. "You have a visitor, Miss Colt. We are aware that we do not know everything about your history, and we thought we'd ask if you want to see the visitor before showing you into the parlor."

Miss Colt blanched. "No, I do not wish to see anyone."

"Not even a Miss Caitlin Barry?" he asked.

Miss Colt blanched further, if such a thing were possible. "No. No, I do not wish to—" She turned, pressed the back of one hand to her mouth. "Please excuse me."

"Miss Colt. Do you need my help in any way?"

"No," she said. "I understand if you wish to terminate my employment, but I would ask that you don't." She still faced away from the two men.

"Why would we send you away for not wanting to see a visitor?" Jamie asked. "McCoy, can you go see to Miss Barry." It wasn't a question.

He nodded, and left, closing the door softly behind him. Jamie was much better at eliciting information from women than he was. Entering the parlor, he saw a young, auburn-haired woman standing near the window. She jumped when he closed the door, and turned to him. "Oh!"

"Pardon me for intruding," he said, knocking as much of the burr out of his voice as possible. "I'm McCoy, Leonard McCoy."

"Caitlin Barry," she said, and the accent identified her as definitely Irish. The clothing, however—dark traveling dress and hat—identified her as upper-class, even to McCoy's relatively untrained eye. "I take your presence to mean that Amelia doesn't wish to see me?"

"Amy," McCoy corrected. Miss Barry pressed her lips together. "Ah," he said. "So Amy Colt is—"

"Amelia Colton," she said. "Six months ago, she was governess to my youngest sister, Juliana."

"Why did she leave?"

Miss Barry compressed her lips again. "I'd rather not discuss it. Suffice it to say that she has committed no crime."

McCoy was well aware that there were many things that one could do that were not crimes yet weren't particularly high on the morality scale, either. After all, he—well, never mind, that was a crime. _Nonetheless._ "And yet," he said, "she doesn't want to see you. Have _you_ committed a crime?"

"No," Miss Barry said shortly. They stood, staring at each other in a sort of stalemate until the door opened; McCoy had to scramble out of the way.

Jamie sauntered in, followed by a watery Miss Colt—or Colton. "Well, Miss Barry, Miss Colton has changed her mind."

Apparently she'd spilled her entire life story to Jamie after McCoy had left.

"Amelia," Miss Barry said, taking a step forward.

"Cait," Miss Colton said, also taking a step forward. The tension in the room stretched thickly between the two young women until suddenly they were in each other's arms, laughing and crying and—were they—kissing?

Before he could determine, Jamie grabbed McCoy by the arm and hauled him out of the parlor, shutting the door behind him. "What are you doing?" McCoy hissed. "They're—" He didn't even know the word for it.

"Kissing?" Jamie said. He had a look on his face that McCoy couldn't interpret.

"Yes!"

Jamie rolled his eyes, a gesture he'd picked up from McCoy himself, and set off in the direction of the library. McCoy followed him. Once that door was shut behind them, Jamie threw himself in his usual chair. "So what are we doing this evening?" he asked, a blatant change of subject.

"Nothing," McCoy snapped, pacing. "It's Sunday. Jamie, my daughter's _governess_ is in your parlor, kissing another woman."

"And Joanna is up in her room, safely away from the sight." Jamie sighed. "Let's not discuss this any further, McCoy."

He knew without a doubt it was in his best interest not to say another word on the matter, but something in him—his grandmother would probably say it was the devil—prodded him on. "It's _wrong_ , Jamie."

"That's what the church says," Jamie agreed, his tone not nearly as polite as his words. "That's what society says."

"And you believe they're mistaken?" McCoy's eyebrow shot up into his hairline.

"Did I say that?" Jamie said. He was still sprawled in his chair, tapping his fingers against one armrest. "Devil take it, McCoy, I don't know what I think about the matter, but Miss Colton didn't look frightened or apologetic for the first time since she's been here, and she loves Miss Barry. It's obvious."

McCoy opened his mouth to refute it, but he realized that he couldn't—fortunately before he said anything else. He stopped pacing and looked straight at Jamie, who had a strange sort of half-smile on his face. His heart gave an odd thump, and he coughed. "Tomorrow night is the Earl of Macclesfield's event, is it not?"

"It is," Jamie said, and looked away.

The devil prodded him on again. "Will you be dancing with Lady Christine there?"

Jamie looked at him, brow furrowed. "I don't know. Perhaps. What does it matter?"

"Well, if you're courting her, shouldn't ye be dancin' wi' her?" Sod it, his accent was showing.

"I'm not courting her," Jamie said. "I'm not, to my knowledge, courting any of the lovely young ladies whose mothers are throwing their daughters at me." He stood. "I believe when I asked you to come to London, I specified that it was to help me keep away the matchmaking mamas. If you're concerned that I'll marry and she'll kick you out, you have no reason to worry. I shall not be marrying this season, or any season."

McCoy's mouth was inexplicably dry, and he swallowed. "You need to marry, to produce an heir."

Jamie shrugged. "I have a cousin George—he's got two sons already. He'll do." He raked a hand though his hair, disturbing the curls. "Shouldn't you remarry, give Joanna a step-mother?"

"I'm not out of mourning yet," McCoy said, although it was a mere matter of weeks before he'd spent an entire year with a black armband and black gloves.

"Is that why you haven't so much as danced with any ladies other than Kit's Number One?" Jamie asked, his lips twisting.

"Yes!" McCoy said. "Also, had you not noticed, I'm not exactly prime marriage material, unlike the sodding earl of Riverside." As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he winced. "Jamie, I—"

Jamie was laughing, albeit bitterly. "Oh, McCoy." He pushed himself upright. "I'd better check on our intrepid governess and her Cait." He strode towards the door, stopping when he stood by McCoy's left side. Two of Jamie's fingers gently, unobtrusively, stroked the back of McCoy's ungloved hand. "I _am_ the sodding earl of Riverside," he said, only a few inches from McCoy's ear, his breath warm. "That is the problem."

He left the room before McCoy could unfreeze enough to move. The back of his hand burned for long minutes as he stared at the door.

* * *

  
Sunday morning Eve begged off of church with a headache, and spent the majority of the day occupying herself with menial tasks. However, when the family had all gone to bed, she couldn't postpone thinking about Christopher anymore. Whenever she tried, though, her mind whirled, in a fashion she was not accustomed to. He loved her, and she loved him—that she couldn't be bothered to deny—and she wanted him, ached to be near him with an intensity that was so much greater than it had been nine years ago. But—

Throwing herself off her bed, she paced in front of the window for a moment or two before she admitted that she knew exactly what she wanted to do. She turned to her wardrobe to change, but before she got any further, the door opened, and Chrissy stepped inside. "Evie," she said. "You've been out of sorts all day."

"Have I?" Eve asked.

"I love you, you know," Christine said.

"Yes, I know, and I love you as well," Eve replied, frowning. "Chrissy, what—"

"You are going to marry him, aren't you?" Her sister's eyes were very wide and very blue, even in the soft candlelight.

Eve sighed and sat on the edge of her bed. "Yes, probably. I need to—there are still things I need to understand."

Chrissy nodded. "All right." She leaned over and kissed Eve on the forehead. "Go to him."

"Christine!" Eve stood up quickly, her hands on her hips, and aimed a glare at her sister, but couldn't find the words to express her disapproval. "Christine," she repeated, after a moment.

Chrissy smiled as she backed out of the room silently and closed the door behind her with a quiet _click_.

Well. That had been interesting. She hadn't been looking for her sister's approval, but now that she had it . . . She dug through the back of her wardrobe until she found the black crepe dress from when her grandmother, the dowager countess, had passed away, and quickly changed into it, covering her head with the matching bonnet and shawl and putting on soft-soled shoes.

Eve slipped out of the house, avoiding the servants with ease, and navigated the two blocks to Prescott House with no mishap. Although she hadn't done it in approximately nine years, she'd made this trek more than once, and her precise memory served her well. Her eyes flickered to the windows on the back of the house—mostly dark, except a dim light off to the left—and saw that one of them on the right had been left open an inch or two. If she remembered correctly, that window would let her into the parlor. Perfect.

Also perfect was the wooden crate left beside the shed. She picked it up, set it below the window, tested to see if it would hold her weight, which it did, and stood on it gingerly. Pushing the window up slowly, so as not to cause any noise, she peered in. It was completely dark inside, and she saw no movement, so she reached in, caught the bottom of the windowsill, and poked a toe in between the bricks. She took a deep breath and hauled herself up.

 _Damnation._ She hadn't done this in years, and had forgotten than it _hurt_. She set her other toe between two bricks and pushed a little further.

Hands caught her about the shoulders; she jerked her head up and almost hit the window before she realized that whoever was touching her was attempting to aid her, rather than push her back out the window. She couldn't see well enough to identify the source of the aid, but she let him help her finish crawling through the window.

Once she stood on the floor, she dusted off her dress and looked at her rescuer. His silver hair glinted in the light of the candle he'd brought with him; his clothing identified him as an upper servant. Probably Christopher's valet, then. "Thank you," she said.

"You're welcome, Lady Eve," the valet said. "However, Lord Prescott has given all of us orders that you are to be admitted at any time, day or night, so next time, please consider coming to the door."

"I'll remember that," Eve said, dragging the remains of her dignity around her. She couldn't tell if he was laughing at her or not. "I'm sorry; I don't know your name."

"Boyce, my lady," he said. "Shall I take you to Lord Prescott?"

"Yes, please."

Boyce picked up his candle again and led the way to the opposite end of the house, where Eve had seen the dim light. He scratched at the door, and at Christopher's "Come," let himself in with her right behind him. "Lord Prescott, you have a visitor."

Christopher was sitting in a chair facing away from the window, adjacent to the fireplace, his feet propped up on a stool. When he saw her, he broke into a surprised grin, making him look strangely youthful in the candlelight. He pushed himself up to standing, not without effort, and Eve frowned. She'd forgotten about his injury. How much pain did he suffer?

"Eve," Christopher said. "Thank you, Boyce." Eve heard Boyce leave and close the door behind her. "Please, come in."

She nodded and came forward a couple steps. While standing in her room, she had known exactly what she wanted to say, but now that she was standing in front of him, in his library, unchaperoned, the words dried up in her throat. Swallowing, she tried. "Christopher, I—" She stopped, unsure of how to proceed.

"Come in," he repeated gently. "Have a seat. Do you want any refreshment? I can ring for tea."

"No. No, thank you, Christopher; I am fine." She edged forward and perched on the edge of the chair that was a twin to his own, facing the window. "How are you?" she asked.

"I am very pleased to see you," he said, only an edge of warmth to his tone, but enough to make her spine tingle. He retook his seat, somewhat stiffly. "Do you attend the Macclesfield ball tomorrow night?"

"Yes, I believe so," she said. His matter-of-fact conversation, as if it were entirely logical for her to visit him at half eleven at night, relaxed her somewhat, but she did not forget her primary goal. "Why didn't you mail the letter?"

His face blanked, but he did not pretend to misunderstand her. Instead he stood again, somewhat less stiffly than before, and walked to the bookshelves, pulling down a large volume and retrieving a folded piece of paper from between the pages. He offered it to her wordlessly, and she opened it to read.

 _15 August 1811_

Dearest Eve,

I am writing to tell you that I have been offered a position in the military—and a promotion—that would mean significant improvement in my financial situation. Due to this, I will be gone for at least another year. I hope you will wait for me, although I cannot guarantee any specific date.

If you decide against waiting, I understand, although I do hope this is not your decision.

As always, my love and I are

Yours,

Chr. Pike

The letter was cold on the surface, but she knew him well enough to know—or at least suspect—the root of the problem. "You did not believe I would wait for you."

"I didn't _know_ ," he corrected. "I—" He spread his hands. "The paralysis of indecision. I do not know whether I was more afraid that you would wait for me, in which case I had certain responsibilities to myself and to you, or that you wouldn't, and I would have nothing to anticipate upon my homecoming."

"I did not wait for you," Eve said, and Christopher looked up, alarmed. "I helped three younger sisters through their come-outs. I planned two weddings. I am the treasurer of the Upper Brook Street arm of the Ladies' Aid Society, and have been for the last four years. My mother has ceded to me nearly the entire running of the household, and my father has allowed me to run the dower property, which has raised wool profitably for the last five years. I have attended dozens of lectures at the Royal Institution, and I have read more than two hundred books. I have not been languishing on the settee in your absence, Christopher." She took a deep breath. "But I have never entertained another suitor."

"Eve," he said, eyes intense. "Eve."

"Should I have, Christopher?" It was unfair, she knew; in no way was she unaware of how he felt about her.

"No," he said. "No." His voice was firmer the second time. "No, you should not have entertained another suitor." He closed the distance between them and dropped to one knee beside her chair. "Eve. Number One. My love, may I renew my suit?"

"Yes," she said, joy bubbling up in her heart. "Yes, of course." She leaned forward, placed her hands on his shoulders, and set her lips to his.

Even as they kissed, though, and as amazing as it was once again to have his mouth against her own, she could feel him wobbling. A moment later, he sat down, hard and unexpected, and Eve was left leaning into empty air. He looked up at her, gray eyes wide, and her heart jumped into her throat for a moment—was he hurt?—before he started laughing. "Oh, One. Come here." He held out his arms, and she slid off the chair and into his lap. His arms closed around her and she buried her head in his shoulder, chuckling.

  
After a moment, though, her mind started cataloguing the differences between Christopher nine years ago and Christopher currently. He was perhaps a little more muscled, now, and of course she'd noticed the gray by his temples; there were more lines on his face, and he was—more serious somehow. Not that he'd ever been particularly light-minded before; he'd taken up his seat in Parliament well before she met him and had always taken his responsibilities to heart. Now, however . . . .

Well, one thing had not changed in the least—he still smelled enticing, and his warm, solid form against her still caused heat to kindle inside her. She inhaled deeply, and just barely resisted the urge to taste his skin; later, she would have the chance, she hoped. "Christopher," she breathed.

"I'm sorry, Eve," he said. "I never should have left you, I never should have stayed away that long, I should have sent the letter, I never should have doubted you."

"No, you shouldn't have doubted me," she said. "And now, you should stop apologizing and kiss me."

"Oh, do you think I should?" Christopher said, grinning even as he cupped her face in his hands and slanted his head. He pulled her in for a long, slow kiss, his lips parting to allow his tongue to drag over the seam of her lips, and she opened them, eager to taste him as she hadn't for nine years. As her tongue met his, he made a sound in the back of her throat and reached up to remove her shawl and bonnet. Breaking the kiss, he unbuttoned her gloves with surprising dexterity and discarded them next to the shawl and bonnet, tracing her fingers with his.

She turned her hand over and returned the motion, finding all the calluses on his hands from riding, fencing, writing, and new ones, apparently from whatever he'd done in the army. She found a scar on the back of his left hand that hadn't been there before, and kissed it—she'd ask how he got it later, but there were more important things to do at the moment.

He sucked in a sharp breath at the touch of her mouth on his skin, and she touched her tongue lightly to the pad of one finger. As he made a sound she could only describe as a 'whimper,' his free hand tangled in her hair, searching for the pins. She sucked the tip of his finger, lightly, and his fingers fumbled in her hair. Looking up at him, her cheeks hollowed out, she saw that his eyes were wide and dark with desire.

"I'd forgotten," he whispered. "How could I forget this?"

She let his finger slip out of her mouth in order to say, "It _has_ been a long time," with a raised eyebrow.

"Never again," he promised, and she chuckled before throwing her arms around his neck and pressing her breasts to the solid wall of his chest.

Eve kissed him again, stroking her tongue just inside his lower lip, and he shuddered. "You remember, don't you?"

"I remember it all," she said, tracing a line down the side of his neck, below his ear, and unraveling his cravat with ease. She kissed the exposed skin of his throat and spread his collar wide. His breathing was unsteady under her hands already, and they had so much farther to go.

But perhaps not on the floor of his library. "Christopher," she said, and stopped. Asking to retire to his chambers was a little beyond her nerve.

Fortunately, he was on the same page. "Shall we go upstairs, my love?" he said, a finger trailing along her jaw.

"Yes," she said, and stood, one hand on the chair as she resettled her skirts. Christopher stood as well, albeit not as gracefully. "Are you in pain?" she asked.

He thought about lying to her, she could tell, but didn't. "Yes," he said. "It's rare that I am not. I don't believe it'll affect us, though."

"You don't know?" she couldn't help but ask.

He smiled. "No."

"Were you faithful?" she asked in disbelief.

"Since the injury, yes. Prior—no," he admitted. "But it was infrequent and I always took great care."

She tilted her head and looked at him. "Well, that's good. I would not marry a man who would give me the French Pox."

"Eve!" he said, scandalized.

"You have always appreciated my practicality, Christopher," she said, and held out a hand.

"I have," he said, taking her hand and pressing her fingers briefly. "You did answer a question I had not yet asked." It was a statement, not a question.

"Yes," she said anyway. "Now that we've determined that you are not going to give me the French Pox and that we will, of course, be married, what shall we do now?"

Christopher smiled warmly and held out his arm; she took it, and they proceeded upstairs to his bedroom. Once inside, he lit candles beside the bed before asking, "What else do you remember?"

She turned to him, slid his cravat off his neck, and said, "I remember how much you enjoyed helping me undress." Her tone was a blatant invitation.

"Yes," he said, and turned her slowly. Eve closed her eyes as she felt him start at the top of the long row of buttons up the back of her gown. His fingers stroked her skin through the thin cloth of her chemise and she shivered. When he finished with the buttons, he pushed the black cloth off her shoulders and she shifted to help it fall to the floor. Pushing it aside with the toe of one shoe, she turned to face him. He smiled again and reached up to remove the rest of her hairpins. Her hair tumbled past her shoulders, straight and thick and dark brown, and he brushed it back from her neck before pulling on the ribbon that tied at the neck of her chemise. She helped him push the delicate fabric down her body, and watched his face as he saw her nude for the first time in nine years.

Eve experienced an uncharacteristic moment of self-consciousness; she was not nineteen anymore and time had wrought changes on her body that might perhaps not be to his liking. However, the wonder, amazement, and arousal writ plainly on her face disabused her of that notion in short order, and she reached out to touch his cheek.

"I love you," he said, turning his face to place a kiss in the palm of her hand. "You are more beautiful now than you ever have been, and you cannot grow but more beautiful to me."

"Thank you," she said. "I would return the compliment, but you are still fully dressed." She looked at him significantly.

Rather than removing his jacket, he sat on the edge of the bed, his face hardening. "Eve, I have been a soldier for nine years, and I fear that the years have not been as kind to me as they were to you."

"Nonsense," she said briskly, masking the concern she felt. "Are you still Christopher?"

"I am," he said, with a puzzled look.

"Then you could have a thousand scars and I would still find you attractive." She slid her fingers along his chest, under his jacket. "Please. Show me."

He stood, slowly, and wrestled off his jacket. Next he untied the laces at his cuffs and placket, and flipped his shirt over his head. While he unbuttoned his trousers and skinned them and his linens down his legs, Eve untied her garters and quickly removed them and her stockings and shoes. A minute later he was nude, watching for her reaction hesitantly.

He was, as she'd noted before, broader through the chest than he'd been before; but his body was still lean and muscled, and while she counted five separate bullet scars, it was the one on his right hip that interested her the most. She placed a hand on his left hip and turned him to the side, to see the scar that left a shiny line, curving from the top of his hip around to his buttocks.

"The scars make you look heroic," she said, "although I wish this one did not cause you pain." She touched the scar in question.

He gave a short bark of laughter. "I am no hero. I spent most of the battle captured, behind enemy lines, and Kirk—Riverside had to carry me to safety."

"It does not signify," she said. "You were there, and you came home _alive_. You came home to _me_ , alive." She pulled back the covers on the bed and lay down on the mattress. "I've forgotten what comes next," she said, although she had not in the least. Next he would put his hands on her bare skin. "Remind me?"

His smile said that he saw through her ruse, but he joined her in the bed, lying on his left side, facing her. "You don't remember this?" he asked, stroking her shoulder. "Or this?" His hand closed over her breast, kneading gently.

She gasped. "Maybe—somewhat."

"Perhaps this will spark your memory, then." He rolled her onto her back; she went gladly, and panted shallowly as he carefully placed a knee between hers and lowered his mouth to her collarbone.

"Christopher," she said, her voice breaking. She threaded her fingers through his hair, dragged her nails lightly down his neck and shoulders—that, she remembered as well, and he still quaked—and hooked her heel around the back of his thigh. "Oh, Christopher."

"Number One," he whispered against her skin, as he ran a thumb over her nipple before sealing his mouth on it.

 _Oh_ , she remembered that, but not the intensity of his mouth pulling at her flesh. She cried out, and felt him smile even as he kept up the suction. After a few moments it became too much, and she pulled him up for a kiss. He returned it enthusiastically before returning his attention to her body, to her other breast, which was already peaked in anticipation. His tongue rasped against the peak, and she strained against the mattress.

When the sensations threatened to overwhelm her this time, she hauled him up to eye level, and then pressed him onto his back. He rolled easily, although he kept her pulled against him, so she ended up straddling him, his erection pressed to her most sensitive spot. She closed her eyes and shuddered.

"Eve? Are you all right?" he asked, his low, sensuous tone at odds with the concern in his words.

"I'm fine," she said, looking down at him. "More than fine, actually." He'd never—well, they'd never—she'd never felt that particular part of him against that particular part of her, but she was certainly aware of the mechanics and had definitely intended to reach this point that night. "How are you?" she asked, and shifted her weight slightly.

He moaned, and she did it again, more deliberately this time. "If you keep that up," he said, his voice rough, "I shall be more than fine rather sooner than I'd planned."

"What did you have planned?" The sensation of him throbbing beneath her was affecting her more than she'd initially thought.

"I thought—perhaps—I'd taste you." He gasped, and she echoed the sound. He'd only put his mouth—down there—on her once before, the night before he'd left, and it had fueled more than one fantasy of hers over the years. When she was willing to think about him, that was. "And then—you could—touch me?"

"Oh, no," she said, and sat up, her hands tracing long strokes over the flat of his chest down to his abdomen. "Not tonight." She thought perhaps she saw the glint of silver in his chest hair, and inexplicably, it aroused her more.

"No?" he said, disappointment on his face.

"No," she said, and leaned over to whisper in his ear. "I thought perhaps we'd try what you would describe to me while you touched me, nine years ago."

"Evie," he said. His eyes were wide. "Are you sure?"

"Of course. We are getting married, right?"

He nodded vigorously.

"Then, if you have no more objections. . . ." She wriggled again, and his hands went to her hips, to still her.  
"No more objections," he said, and rolled her back beneath him, with a slight wince she chose to ignore this time. He kissed her, tongues tangling, and then kissed a trail down her neck, between her breasts, over her navel, down to the hair covering her feminine mound, and quickly over the insides of her thighs before parting her with his fingers and tracing a circle with his tongue.

"Oh!" She arched her back, moaning. It was hotter, wetter, and significantly _better_ than she remembered, even in her most explicit fantasies. Christopher explored her thoroughly with his mouth, sliding his tongue even down to her entrance before sucking at just the right spot to send flares through her body. She felt herself begin the familiar climb as he slid a finger, carefully, inside her, as he never had before. The new sensation surprised her with how much she enjoyed it, and she canted her hips against his mouth and hand as he pressed inside her and sucked harder until she saw stars behind her eyelids and cried out his name.

He moved up the bed to hold her as she shook with passion, stroking her hair for long moments as she relearned how to breathe. When she recalled herself, she realized that he was murmuring in her ear, how much he loved her, how much he had missed her, how happy he was to be with her. She smiled, and turned her head to capture his lips. "I love you too," she said a minute later.

The smile on his face when she said that was so surprised and delighted that she said it again. "I love you." He bundled her into his arms and pressed his lips to her forehead. "As lovely as this is," she said against his neck, "I don't believe we're finished."

"No," he breathed. "No, we are not." He looked at her, and the heat in his eyes made her shudder and clench. Releasing her onto her back, he swept a hand down her body until it was between her legs, and used his fingers to spread the moisture he found there. She splayed her knees encouragingly, and he groaned.

"Is this going to work?" she asked, remembering his injury.

"I don't know," he said, "but I'd very much like to try."

"Yes," she said. "Yes. Please."

He groaned again, and covered her body with his, fitting his hips between her thighs, and pressing himself to her again. "This may hurt," he warned.

"I know," she said. "I am not entirely ignorant. _Please_ , Christopher."

He closed his eyes, a pained look on his face, and slid inside her, just barely. She felt the stretch and a sigh fell out of her. "Tell me if it's too much?"

"Yes," she said, and lifted her ankles up behind his knees.

He slid in an inch further, and she took a deep breath, trying to relax tense muscles. "It'll hurt less next time," he said.

"I know," she said. "I trust you."

He closed his eyes, buried his face in her shoulder, and thrust in, slowly, another inch or so. "Lift your legs further?" he suggested, and she did. Some of the pressure lessened, and he eased in slightly further. "I love you," he said, and pushed in the rest of the way.

 _Oh_. That hurt. A bit. Not a lot. She squirmed, and he looked at her. "I'm sorry," he said.

"I love you," she said. "There is no need to be sorry. I am yours now."

Christopher lowered himself to his forearms, and cupped her head with his hands. "Yes, you are," he said, voice gravelly, and took her mouth, kissing her witless.

Slowly, so very slowly, he withdrew, and she gasped. He searched her face, and apparently got the answer he wanted, because he pressed inside her once again, still slowly, and then pulled out again. He kept the slow, steady rhythm until she said "Christopher" on a broken sob. It seemed to be enough for him, because he sped up, thrusting into her, sweat slicking his brow. It had long since ceased hurting, or perhaps the pain had become just one more sensation in her oversensitized body, and she twisted her head from side to side, searching for a completion she was not sure she could achieve.

"Christopher," she said, again. "Oh, Christopher."

"Eve," he said, and used one hand to adjust her hips, changing the angle. He renewed his thrusts, and the new angle aligned their bodies such that-- _oh_ \--Eve felt herself rising, and rising, and hurling off the cliff for the second time that night.

Dimly, through the haze, she felt him bury himself inside her one final time and achieve his completion, her name on his lips as he fell.

Long moments later, she raised her head. "Did that hurt you?"

He sighed, and kissed her shoulder before answering. "Yes, but not enough to halt my performance."

"I am sorry," she said, and unwound her legs.

He withdrew, eliciting a gasp from her, and collapsed by her right side. "It is of no consequence. I should do my strengthening exercises more regularly, it seems." Sitting up briefly, he pulled the bedcovers over them.

She leaned over and kissed him on the nose. "We have time to practice."

"That we do, my love." He turned her to face away from him and pulled her against his body, and she curved to fit. "Are you in pain?" he asked, running a hand lightly over her hip.

Eve shook her head. "I am perhaps a little sore, but no true pain."

He buried his face in the back of her neck. "I wish it did not have to be so."

"No matter," she said, and yawned.

He kissed her shoulder blade and shifted the bedsheet under his arm.

"I always was yours," she said, a sleepy admission, a few minutes later.

"And I yours," he replied. "Sleep, my love. I'll wake you and escort you home well before dawn."

"Thank you," she said, even as sleep sucked her down its dark well. He chuckled, and tightened his arm around her.


	7. Chapter 7

_In which there are many auspicious beginnings_  
Riverside House, Patterson House, and somewhere in Naples  
Monday morning

  
McCoy'd spent the rest of the afternoon and evening with Joanna, ignoring anyone else in the house and putting his conversation with Jamie as far from his mind as possible. When Miss Colton had returned to check on her charge, he'd given her the evening off with, he thought, no vitriol or judgment. She'd thanked him profusely and left the nursery.

After Joanna had fallen asleep, he'd gone down to his rooms and spent the rest of the evening with a bottle of French brandy, seeking oblivion. He woke up some hours later with an aching head, and doused his head with water, hoping that would help. It didn't, but toast and tea did, and he felt somewhat human by the time he went down to the library to retrieve some paper.

He probably should have known that Jamie would be in there, working on something at his desk. McCoy stopped a foot or so past the door, and Jamie looked up and gave him a tight smile. "Good morning."

"Good morning," McCoy echoed.

"How's Joanna?" Jamie asked.

"She's well," McCoy said, edging into the room. Well, he was here. He might as well be polite. "What are ye workin' on?" And there was the burr of his accent again. He swallowed.

Jamie sighed. "A bill."

"Oh?"

"Yes. Kit's exhortations finally got to me."

"Ah," McCoy said. He knew better than to push Jamie about his father, but that meant the bill was probably regarding the abolition of slavery.

"Have you seen Miss Colton?" Jamie asked, as he blotted the paper he'd been using and set it aside.

"Not yet this morning," McCoy said.

"She's still worried that you're going to put her out. I've temporarily installed Miss Barry in one of the guest suites, by the way."

McCoy sighed. "Jamie, I haven't made up my mind yet."

"Why?" Jamie asked, his face serious, his voice low and even. "Because she's a sinner?" He stood. "I suppose you'll have to kick me out, too, McCoy, for I'm a sinner as well. And if I'm not mistaken, you've forgotten to keep a few Sabbath days holy, which makes you a sinner as well."

"It's—" He wet his lips. "It's not the same thing."

"That's not for you to decide, McCoy," Jamie said, coming out from behind his desk. He leaned a hip up against the front and crossed his arms in front of him.

McCoy blinked. Jamie was right—it _wasn't_ for him to decide. He'd—he'd have to consider that for a while. "How long?" he asked.

"How long what?" Jamie asked.

"How long have you been—"

"—Like this?" Jamie finished, a twist to his lips. "Longer than you've known me, McCoy. Perhaps since I was born, since I can't see that God made me any other way."

"But you—you make love to so many women."

"I _like_ women," Jamie said. "I like talking with them; I like interacting with them; I like flattering them, to see them smile. But it never goes any further."

"Perhaps you just haven't—"

"Met the right lady?" Jamie laughed bitterly. "Oh, McCoy. Give me some credit."

It did sound ridiculous, now that he thought of it—that one could conceive of one's self being attracted to men because one hadn't met the right woman. Not being attracted to women wasn't in the least the same thing as being attracted to men. McCoy gave a reluctant half-smile. "Sorry, Jamie."

"It's fine," he said, with an indeterminate gesture. "I understand this is all new and strange to you but it isn't, it so very isn't, to me."

"How did I not know?" McCoy asked, at least half of himself.

Jamie shrugged. "I'm good at hiding it. I've had lots of practice. But that wasn't what you were asking, was it?"

No. No, it wasn't. Because frankly, what he'd been drinking to try to forget was that if Jamie was—was like that, it meant that what he'd been carefully not contemplating had moved out of the theoretical and into the realm of possible. Very possible, if Jamie's touch on the back of his hand was any indication.

It wasn't his place to judge, and they'd all been made in His image, hadn't they? Hadn't they?

Good God, he was in love with his best friend. His _male_ best friend, who—well, who might even—

"I have to go," he blurted out, and high-tailed it back to his rooms, where he very manfully did not throw up, although it was a close call. He leaned against the door and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. _No, no, no._

A knock came at his door a moment or two later, and he jumped a foot in the air. Turning around, he opened the door, and Miss Colton stood there, wringing her hands. "Miss Colton," he said.

"Lieutenant McCoy, sir," she said.

"Mr. McCoy," he corrected absently. "Did you need something, Miss Colton? Is Joanna all right?"

"Oh, no, Joanna's fine," she said, and paused. "I wanted to thank you for not turning me out immediately," she said, all in a rush, a hint of an Irish lilt coming out where it never had before. "It was a moment of weakness and it'll never happen again, sir."

She looked truly miserable as she said the last, and McCoy frowned. "I don't seem to remember that your employment was contingent on you not having any friends," he said, after a moment or two.

Miss Colton nervously pushed back a strand of hair that had come out of her bun. "But, sir, we're—"

"You may be friends with whomever you choose, Miss Colton," he said, interrupting gently. "It's none of my business, as long as it doesn't impact your behavior while you are around my daughter."

"It won't, sir. Thank you, sir." She looked up at him with wide eyes. "Thank you so much, sir." Another pause, and she said, "I hope you . . ."

"You hope what, Miss Colton?" he said, his tone acid and his hands shaking. He clenched the door frame to make them stop.

"Nothing, sir," she said, ducking her head and escaping.

McCoy closed the door again and went to his sitting room, dropping heavily into a chair and leaning his forearms on his thighs.

* * *

  
At precisely ten Monday morning, significantly too early for a proper social visit, Christopher Pike, Baron Prescott, presented himself at Patterson House to speak to the Earl of Patterson. Eve's father admitted him right away, and said, "We've been here before, haven't we, Lord Prescott?"

"We have, my lord."

"I presume this time you've actually spoken to my daughter regarding whether she will or will not marry you."

"I have, my lord, and she has answered in the affirmative."

"She did tell me as much over breakfast," Lord Patterson said, leaning back in his chair. "Special license or banns?"

"Whichever Lady Eve prefers, my lord," Christopher said. He had a special license in his pocket just in case; had gotten it weeks ago, even when there seemed to be no possibility of her ever speaking to him again.

"All right. Terms the same as before?"

"I would marry her if she came with nothing, my lord," he said, speaking nothing but the truth.

Lord Patterson frowned. "She comes with twenty thousand, same as the other three. I'll not dishonor my eldest daughter by suggesting she is worth any less." He tapped the table. "Besides, unless the military pays better than I think, you'll need it."

"Ah, we won't, actually," Christopher said. "I've made some investments that paid off handsomely, and the military does pay tolerably if one is an officer, and if one has nowhere to spend it."

Lord Patterson looked at him skeptically, and he produced a piece of paper. "Here is the most recent accounting of my estates," he said, placing it on the desk.

Lord Patterson took a look at it and said, "This is much improved from the last conversation we had. Well done, Christopher. Apparently your gamble paid off."

"Thank you, my lord."

"Not that you need it anymore, but you have my permission to marry Evie, and you'd probably better go tell her so before she bursts into the room." Lord Patterson stood, with a grin, and held out his hand. "Welcome to the family, Christopher, even if it took quite a while."

"Thank you, my lord." He couldn't stop the smile from spreading over his face, even as he shook his future father-in-law's hand and left the room.

Eve was standing right outside, as fresh and lovely as if she'd not been sneaking around Mayfair the night before. She looked at him expectantly, although he was still smiling, and he said, "Did you have any reason to think he would deny me?"

She returned the smile, and a moment later she was in his arms, kissing him as if he were about to disappear. "Special license," she murmured in his ear. "Absolutely by special license."

* * *

  
An hour later, McCoy had come to no conclusions, but he knew he could not leave the situation with Jamie as it was. He hauled himself out of his chair and forced himself to go downstairs.

Jamie was still in the library, still poring over his bill. The light from the window behind him made his hair glow golden, and limned the edges of his cheekbones as he looked up. "Hello, old man," he said, a hint of their usual camaraderie in his voice.

"Jamie," McCoy said.

"Still coming with me to Macclesfield's tonight?"

"Yes," he said. "Are you going to dance with Lady Christine tonight?" He smiled this time, to show that it was a joke.

"Perhaps," Jamie said, lounging in his chair. "If she's wearing pink."

"She does look lovely in pink," McCoy said. The banter was oddly soothing.

A scratch came at the door, and Jamie called for the footman to enter. He did, delivering a single folded sheet of paper to Jamie and returning to wait by the door.

Jamie unfolded the paper and read it, his face lighting up into his wide signature grin. "It's from Kit," he said, holding it out to McCoy. He nodded to the footman, who left.

McCoy came over, took the note, and looked at it. There were only three words on the page, in Lord Prescott's messy scrawl: _She said yes!_

"Finally," he said, affecting a displeased tone and setting the paper back on the desk.

Jamie laughed, bright and open, and came out from behind the desk to lean against the front of it again, mere inches away from McCoy, his arms crossed loosely. "I wonder how exactly that came about. She barely spoke to him during supper at the Bridgertons'."

McCoy shrugged. "I'm sure he'll tell us later." Jamie was so close by, and his brain was clamoring simultaneously to shift to close the distance and to back away. He remained, frozen in place.

"Oh, do you think he'll have any free time?" Jamie turned his head to look at him, and—his eyes were blue as spring skies, which intellectually McCoy had always known, but the fact hit him like a blow to the gut, with an accompanying stab of arousal that he could no longer deny.

"I don't know," he said eventually, his voice gravelly. He coughed and looked down. "I would guess that Lady Eve can plan an entire wedding by herself, without his assistance, in a single afternoon."

"Probably," Jamie agreed. He uncrossed his arms and rested his hands against the edge of the desk, staring across the room absently. "Nonetheless, I'll write him and offer our congratulations and assistance." He made no move to return behind his desk, despite his words.

"Yes," McCoy said, and took a deep breath. Lightly, almost hesitantly, he brushed the fingers of his left hand over the back of Jamie's right hand before settling it into place right next to the younger man's hand.

Jamie sucked in a breath, looked down at their hands, and then back up. "McCoy, don't—" He stopped.

Greatly daring, McCoy said, "I know I'm not wearing pink, but would you care to dance, Lord Riverside?" He held out a hand.

Jamie looked at McCoy's hand, looked back at his face, and laughed joyfully. He took McCoy's hand and swung into waltz position, a proper society distance between them. "Pink's not your color," he said. "Blue, now, there's your color."

"Is that why you keep offering to lend me blue coats?" Jamie's back was warm under his hand, and although his stomach was still roiling, McCoy was—happy.

"Maybe," Jamie demurred, and they both laughed.

* * *

  
Three weeks after the opera gala, Alexander Grayson, Lord Spockton, arrived in Naples, Italy, to discover if it would be an acceptable location for the foreign base of an import/export business. He spent the first two days there setting himself up in his new apartments, which had a lovely view of the Royal Garden. He spent the next three days vetting business contacts he'd gleaned from his acquaintances in London in the afternoons, the mornings exploring the museums and parks, and the evenings in the opera halls. Naples was a lovely city, even without the added attraction of one of its residents.

On the sixth day, he sent his card over to the villa of Signora Marchesi with a short note explaining his business in town and that he hoped they would encounter each other socially.

Not two hours later, he received an invitation for dinner the following night, and a small smile curved his lips.

-fin-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a short, cheesy bit of sequel [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/171673).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Four and a Half Years Hence (The Just Add Dinosaurs Remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/193808) by Anonymous 
  * [A Chance Encounter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/193940) by [circ_bamboo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/circ_bamboo/pseuds/circ_bamboo)
  * [Another Two Years Having Elapsed or: Meanwhile in the Pike Houseold](https://archiveofourown.org/works/202032) by Anonymous 
  * [Some Indeterminate Point in the Future, Morning](https://archiveofourown.org/works/202071) by Anonymous 
  * [Six Weeks Following the Arrival of Ladies Elizabeth and Isabel McKinnies and Tiny the Diplodocus.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/204178) by Anonymous 
  * [Two Days After The Aunts' Blessed Departure](https://archiveofourown.org/works/205613) by Anonymous 




End file.
